


Dog Days

by Griffy (honklust)



Series: Monkey Wrench [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blowjobs, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Edging, Emetophobia (minor), Emotional Baggage, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add characters as they show up lol, M/M, Mentions of Dubcon, Multi, Pining, References to Depression, Ryan has Aspergers and you can take that from my cold dead hands, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trans Female Character, Trans Jack Pattillo, Trans Jeremy Dooley, Trans Male Character, Trans Michael Jones, Video Cameras, Violence, Voyeurism, also gavin has adhd, and michael has... some other stuff!, blunt force trauma, dog analogies, im here bringing the neuroatypical fakes that you deserve, mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honklust/pseuds/Griffy
Summary: Ryan has been very, very careful to remain unattached and un-involved in the romantic lives of the other Fakes. The closest he's come to anything with any of them is that... introduction thing with Gavin, and that wasn't exactly a perfect situation. No, he definitely wants to remain solo here.He does his job and he does it well. There is no room for hesitation in this line of work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly compliant with the FAKES timeline I set up in Ghosts Don't Talk although it reads fine as a standalone! There's a lot of unhealthy emotional shit in this, as well as gratuitous violence. Also, Jack is a trans woman. I am not a trans woman, and if I present anything involving her in an inadvertently offensive manner, PLEASE let me know and I will remedy that. 
> 
> There's going to be porn in later chapters, I promise.

The sound of a boot-heel slamming into the door behind him was the last thing the enemy gang member ever heard.

He wasn’t alive long enough to hear anything else. He was lucky, in that regard. He didn’t get to experience the feeling of the bullet entering the back of his skull and exiting between his eyebrows, or the sight of the dark skeleton leering over him as he collapsed on the concrete floor of the warehouse.

People that saw that mask usually wished they hadn’t. They usually wished they’d been bodies before they’d known he was there.

Ryan stepped over the man’s corpse, making brief note of his ugly jacket, now stained with bits of brain and skull. These guys weren’t all that important, really. They’d been thorns in Geoff’s side for a while, but not even the biggest of thorns. Just… increasingly bothersome ones. Bothersome enough that the Kingpin had decided they needed to be removed.

And if Geoff told Ryan to take care of something, then the Vagabond would be there to take care of it.

Some people called him Ramsey’s guard dog. Others called him the specter of death itself, Los Santos’s own Grim Reaper.

He liked that last nickname a lot. It was fitting, wasn’t it? There was no man beneath the mask. Just bloodlust and manic, eager precision. He got jobs done and he enjoyed doing them. That was what made him so intimidating.

Also, calling him a guard dog was kind of a misnomer anyway, he mused, tucking himself into the shadows between the juncture of two hallways. This warehouse was stocked to the brim with goods that had been stolen right out of the Fakes’ back pockets. There was money behind each rolling metal door, and Ryan could practically smell it. Pounds and pounds of coke and drugs and all manner of paraphernalia. And it was theirs.

Yeah. He wasn’t a guard dog. That implied that he was always at Geoff’s side, protecting him from threats. No, the Kingpin could protect himself (albeit with a lot of complaining.) Ryan’s job was not so much guarding as it was recon. He was… more of a retriever, right? A retriever with a penchant for exponential bloodshed.

Like Cujo. Was Cujo a retriever?

He was still thinking about that as he grabbed the second man by the collar of his shirt, slammed the hard steel butt of the pistol into the space at the very base of his skull, heard that telltale crack. He dropped him as soon as he went limp.

Nah, Cujo was like… A Lab or something, probably. Or a Mastiff. Truth be told, he hadn’t read that book in—

The sound of a gun cocking behind him made him shift, press himself flat against one wall as he pivoted, gloved thumb cocking his own weapon as he went. There was a man in the empty doorway that he’d just left – eyes wide, body quaking as he stood over his co-workers slumped form. He looked new. High as a kite, likely.

Ryan saw the realization of doom in his eyes and a thrill crackled through him. There was an uncomfortable mix of lusty power there, some terrible, terrible thing that didn’t feel like guilt at all. He couldn’t afford to think about that, though. He couldn’t afford to think at all. The Vagabond didn’t have time for thoughts or guilt or concern.

He took aim with mechanical grace, shot him right in the neck. Oof. Messy. Geoff would be upset about that.

What was there to think about? Guilt? He’d caused many, many men to visit an early grave, he wasn’t about to start cutting people slack because they faltered. Because they looked afraid.

Hesitation meant death. That was how it was in this industry, and if they didn’t know that yet, they’d be taught it by someone else’s gun. In a way, he did the guy a favor by being the one to take him out.

The warehouse wasn’t supposed to be too packed. It wasn’t peak hours for working and they were under the impression that the Fakes didn’t know they were here, anyway. Shouldn’t be more than ten men or so, and he’d already done three inside and something like four outside. The rest would likely be in the computer room, worrying over the fact that the camera feed was broken.

Or, more likely, not worrying about it. They weren’t getting paid enough by their bosses to worry over technology.

Ryan crept through the hall quietly, his footfalls the only real sound beside the hum of the controlled temperature storage units. One more right and he should be in the office, and then he’d blow through the plexiglass windows and be done for the night. Warehouse secured, paycheck secured. Easy peasy.

And maybe he could go home and google the whole Cujo thing…

He could see the door ahead of him – plain, office-building standard. They’d had doors like that at his old job, back before he moved to Los Santos (ran away to Los Santos) and that thought made him feel weirder than seeing that guy’s neck explode had.

He furrowed his brows under the mask. He was sweating despite the fact that the warehouse wasn’t super hot, but he had a goddamned look to maintain even if that did mean basically walking around in three layers of leather.

Aestheticism was important to the image.

Just as important as finishing his job and leaving no one left alive unless he was _supposed _to leave them to tell the story.

There was theatre to this whole ordeal, wasn’t there? Performance in the set of his shoulder, in the way he was breathing. Every part of Ryan Haywood ate, slept, and breathed dramatics. It kept him in the moment, kept him focused on making sure each step was taken with perfect intent.

Each step, except the one that he took next.

Evidently, the grunts had recently mopped the floor (probably cleaning up a blood spatter or something) and Ryan might’ve been distracted or he might’ve just not been paying enough attention. Whatever the case, he slid forward, his boot taking no traction on the wet tile. He grunted in surprise, toppling over on his ass, his leg twisting, and then—

And then a crack. And there was pain shooting up through his whole body, leaving him wide-eyed and panting. He broke his own goddamned leg. Holy shit. He was an idiot.

It hurt like hell, adrenaline pumping through him like electricity. The sweat beading on his forehead now was colder and stickier – his body going into shock. Fuck.

Okay. Plan B. Apparently, nobody had heard him eat shit on the ground ten feet from the door. He could work with that.

He lifted himself up gingerly, just enough to unfold so he could briefly assess the damage. His leg was bent sideways at a right angle, somewhere between his ankle and his knee. Okay. That… was bad. That was a really bad break.

He drew a shaky, hard inhale and steeled himself, grabbing ahold of the broken appendage with one hand. Okay. Three, two—

He didn’t scream. He was pretty surprised, actually, that he managed to keep from screaming. It hurt so bad it made his jaw ache, made every muscle in his body tremble and shake. He was going to pass out. His vision was already going dark and spotty, but he drew a few more inhales, willing himself to stay conscious. Three more bullets, then he could go. Three more kills.

He just needed to make them from here.

He drug himself up against a wall, his broken leg dragging behind like a lame animal, tucking himself into relative safety. This next thing was going to be a real risky move, but… He could probably pull it off.

Nah. He definitely could. He was like, pretty goddamned sure.

He inhaled again, sniffed against the snot in his nose and the pain-tears in his eyes. That was okay. Okay.

He readied his pistol, holding it in both hands to help correct his trembling aim, and fired a shot at the space directly in front of the office door.

It was only a moment before it swung open, an armed man filing out, his expression set in concern and vigilance, gun held at the ready. He looked around, trying to find the source of the gunshot, but apparently Ryan was out of sight enough in his tiny little alcove.

Just wait for it, Haywood. C’mon. Pay attention.

He bit down on the side of his tongue so hard that he could taste blood, waiting for the other two men to follow after the first one.

They did, of course. All three of them whispering curses and confused, angry orders at each other. Like he’d suspected. Nobody important.

He had to move quick for the next part, which was pretty hard with an entire broken leg weighing him down, but he had managed harder feats in tougher circumstances. Really, this was just supremely embarrassing.

He shifted out into the hallway with a grunt, firing as he went. The men didn’t expect him to be on the _floor, _so their shots ricocheted pretty high. That was enough time for him to hit them all a few times, their bodies spasming, voices shouting in panic as they fell.

Okay. That went… really well, actually. Way, way better than he’d expected! He was glad these enemy criminals were so fucking predictable.

Now was the worst part, really.

He reached up to his chest, tapping the pocket where his com rested over his breast. The shiver in his limbs was getting worse, and that small expenditure of energy had made him more exhausted than ever. He wanted to fall asleep right here.

“Hey, G. Warehouse is clear, or should be. I’m…” He paused, drawing a shaky inhale. “I have been injured, so, if someone could come wheel me out that would be fuckin’ great.”

“Wot! Ryan! Didja get shot, Ryan?” Gavin’s voice crackled through the speaker, too loud, edging somewhere between amused and concerned.

He wished he had gotten shot. That would be a million times more reasonable than this dumbass mess he was in. “Not… Uh. No, not shot. My leg is broken. Please hurry up before I pass out and get murdered in here.”

“Well whose gonna murder you if you did your bleedin’ job, Haywood?” Gavin responded, although he was very clearly not upset. Goddamnit. He was never, ever going to let Ryan hear the end of this. “How did you wind up breaking a leg? Did you trip? Did someone kick you really hard?”

“Yes, Gavin. I was kicked by a giant.” He deadpanned, letting his body rest against the hard metal wall. “Are you coming?”

“Yeh, so long as you killed that giant.”

“Yes. He’s so dead. Incredibly dead.”

“Be there in a bit, then!” He giggled, making a squeaky, amused noise. Fuck. “Don’t break any other bones before I get to ya!”

Ryan let out a long, drawn out groan, his head smacking into the wall as he closed his eyes. This was going to be a long, long night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains VERY minor ableism, but I thought I'd mention it just in case.

“Nah, Cujo was a Saint Bernard.” Geoff was sitting with his bare feet up on the coffee table, a bowl in his lap, his eyes focused on Ryan from across the living room.

It had been approximately three days since Ryan’s stupid little accident, and while he’d insisted he could care for himself at home, the rest of the crew had decided (against his will) that he should stay at the Penthouse while he healed.

Truth be told, he hadn’t argued that hard. Being home alone and unable to piddle around and do things would be so boring that he wanted to cry just thinking about it. At least here, he could bother Geoff and Jack.

“Really? St. Bernard’s aren’t that scary, though.” Ryan replied, taking a bite of chili. It was really good chili – Jack had made it. He could get used to getting made dinner.

“Uh!” Geoff sat forward, looking at Ryan like he was crazy. “Are you crazy? Yeah the fuck they are! They’re huge, dude.”

“So? Huge doesn’t mean scary.”

“Huge dog means scary dog! Those fuckers are all teeth and muscle.”

Jack stepped in between them, knocking Geoff’s legs off their resting place as she sank down onto the couch beside him. “What are you two arguing about? Are we getting a guard dog?” She looked up at Ryan, a wry little smile at the corner of her scarred lips. “We’ve already got one, right, Ry?”

“Hey, I resent—”

“Nah, Ryan was asking me about Cujo.” Geoff replied, his voice drawn a little distant. He was enamored with his partner every time she got close to him – his eyes drawn down the pale slope of her chest, lingering on the generous cleavage between the buttons of her Hawaiian shirt.

“Cujo, huh?” She glanced between the two of them, snorting at Geoff’s dopey expression. “You’re gonna catch flies if you don’t close your mouth, Geoffrey.”

Ryan felt… uncomfortable. Not because they were flirting – everyone in the Fakes flirted with each other pretty much constantly – but just because…

Maybe because it felt so intimate. Because the way Geoff looked at Jack was an uncomfortable (familiar, forgotten) expression of love and lust that was so powerful it was kind of embarrassing. It felt like something Ryan wasn’t entitled to see.

“Maybe I should go back to my place, actually.” He blurted, sitting up. The action hurt a little – tugged at the muscles in his damaged leg.

Jack raised an eyebrow and Geoff turned beet red beside her, stuffing a bite of chili in his mouth. “Why?” She asked, her tone the same one that was usually reserved for when Gavin had a stupid idea involving her aircrafts.

“Uh.” He replied, smartly.

“Dude, don’t be shy. I promise, uhh, me and Jack aren’t gonna start making out in front of you.” Geoff piped up, his mouth still full.

“Unless that’s what he wants.” Jack offered, gesturing at him with her spoon. “Is that it, Ryan? You a pervert?”

He felt his face heat up as he shook his head. “That’s not- I’m—I’m glad you two are getting along. Uh. Romantically. I just… I wanted to get some rest and-“  
  
“Down, boy. Relax.” Jack cooed, getting to her feet. She set her dinner down on the coffee table as she approached him, a tall beacon of sarcasm and pretty red hair, her eyes narrowed. That was a dangerous expression. Jacklyn was a dangerous woman.

Ryan felt his heart seize up in his throat. More scared now than he had been when he busted his ass at the warehouse. He wondered if he looked like that guy from the doorway. Wide-eyed, ready for death.

Before he could register what was happening there were warm hands on either side of his face. She smelled like cucumber lotion and his mind went fully blank as she leaned over him, all he could think about was a stupid Stephen King book about a stupid dog and—

She only kissed him on the forehead, but it made his breathing stop. He had his eyes closed, his hands clenched tight around his stupid bowl of stupid chili. Everything felt warm and intense and overwhelming and there were feelings threatening to overflow, words that he’d been dutifully swallowing threatening to overcome him and he…

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, stock-still, heart racing for what might've been seconds or what might've been hours.

Finally, after she had stepped back a bit, he let choked out a little laugh and smiled at up her, the apples of his cheeks red. Avoided eye contact. “You’re really mother henning me, Pattillo.” He managed, tone more strangled than he wanted it to be. He felt like an open book.

She huffed out a laugh, one that felt aimed directly at him. One eyebrow raised and she looked at him for a long time, like she was working him over, picking up what information she could. He hated it when she looked at him like that. It felt like she knew all his secrets but was doing him the awkward, terrible favor of letting him keep them quiet. He almost wished she'd just expose all his guilty, desperate, stupid shit out loud. Spare him the experience of constantly drowning on dry land.

_Whenever you’re ready, Ryan. Whenever you wanna talk._

“Sorry! Michael gets cranky when I try to baby him.” She chirped after a beat too long, giving him a toothy smile that exposed the single silver molar she had on the left side. He wanted to kiss her. He really, really wanted to kiss her.

He did not kiss her. 

* * *

Nothing had really _happened _that night, but even still the whole event stuck with him. Jack was trapped behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep. Her smile, the way she brushed her hair back from her forehead, the low purr of her voice. Everything, ever laugh, every joke, every time Geoff's hands would graze over her skin, his dark eyes drifting closed...

He was scowling as he wheeled himself into the kitchen, the expression fully unintentional. He was supposed to be over this shit. He'd made a fucking pact with himself to be over it. He didn't have time for complications and relationships and shit that was just going to make his work life _and_ his private life more stressful. 

“Jesus, man. Rough night?” Geoff was standing with an elbow propped up on the kitchen counter, a dark coffee mug in his hand. He looked down at Ryan with a low little smirk, his hooded eyes focused on the other man. His gaze made Ryan feel… weird. Made his heart ache. Shit. No, no. No. If Jack was already possessing his every waking moment, he didn't think he could handle being forced to address his feelings towards other third of the Gents. Geoff was different. You didn't get high-school crushes on your fucking boss, especially not if your boss was the single most dangerous man in the city. 

“Helloooo?” And then Geoff was right there in Ryan’s face, patting his free hand against the other man’s stubbly cheek. “Did you hit your head, Haywood?” He was smiling, that kind, mischievous little smile of his and – And Ryan could almost see it. Could see him leaning in further, curling those inked digits through his messy hair and kissing him. Taking the question out of the equation, like he did with everything else. Effortless and casual and so awfully, terribly forgiving. He wondered if his lips were soft, if Geoff was a gentle-

“Oh, fuck.” He said, out loud. Like an idiot. He was as red as a tomato and he shoved his wheelchair backwards, moving away from Geoff with a little too much gusto. He smacked his back against the bar. Ouch.

Geoff startled, standing up straight, his coffee spilling all over the nice white tiles at his feet. “Jesus!” His voice cracked, pale eyebrows raised. “What- what happened?”

“Uh. Shit. I’m sorry.” Ryan managed before maneuvering his chair back around the corner and down the hall to his guest room. Oh god. He should just kill himself. Get over whatever nightmare his brain was suddenly embarking on. 

* * *

  
He stayed in there for the next several hours, constantly worrying that Geoff was going to knock on the door and come ask stupid, personal questions with that stupid, overly genuine look on his face. Geoff always looked at people like that. Like he really, really cared about what they were saying. It made his heart skip. He hated it.

Nah, Cujo was wrong. He definitely wasn’t Cujo because Cujo wasn’t a guard dog or a retriever, he was just a feral animal that killed for no reason and needed to be put down. Ryan killed for a reason. A lot of reasons. Some of them rational, like money. Some of them less rational, like the fact that he needed the release, like the fact that he wanted to do a good job for his boss. For his team. For his friends.

Maybe he wasn’t a guard dog. Maybe he was a fucking lap dog.

He was startled out of his quiet anxiety by the sound of his phone going off. He dug it out of his pocket only to find that Michael had texted him twice.

**Michael Jones: hey fuckface do u wann**

**Michael Jones: hey fuckface do you wanna go 2 dinner w me and gav? his treat **

That question made him feel weird. He was musing over that feeling when he got a third message.

**Michael Jones: ill make sure 2 pick a place that allows wheelchair bound dumbasses lmao**

Ryan didn’t know if dinner was a good idea. His ability to restrain himself was lapsing, and having dinner with two-thirds of the Lads felt a lot more like a date than it should have. He didn’t want to go on a date with them. He didn’t want to go on a date with _anyone._

He set his phone in his lap, drawing his eyes up the blank expanse of his bedroom door. He needed to think. He wasn’t supposed to be having _feelings _like this. From day one, back when Gavin had broken into his apartment and proceeded to put his dick in his mouth, he’d been wholly convinced that he was over having feelings. Sex was one thing, feelings were another. Getting mushy with his fellow Crew members (or god forbid some random civilian) was probably the worst mistake a man like him could make. It was frustrating, enough to make him want to tear at his fucking hair. It made him want to go out, to do reckless, dangerous things. But doing reckless shit was how he'd gotten in this situation in the first place. Actually, being reckless had gotten him into a number of predicaments lately, hadn't it?

If he went soft, got too reckless, he wouldn’t be able to stay in character. And if he couldn’t stay in character, if he couldn’t maintain the heartless, precise chaos of the Vagabond...

Well then he wouldn’t need to be in the Crew anymore. He wouldn’t be able to work, he would be a wreck of repressed memories and dinner dates and he'd be lost, lost to normalcy, lost to letting himself cry and cry over something as stupid as a broken promise or a book or a dog analogy or something. He didn't want to go back to that office, or that town, or that house. No, the Vagabond was the only thing he had now. It was the only thing that mattered, and he couldn't let anyone get beneath his mask and jeopardize his position.

He put his phone down and climbed his way up into bed. He just... needed to think. Michael could wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a tiny bit heavier, and also features a whole lot of Ryan waxing poetic about his fellow gang members. He also goes nonverbal and dissociates some so if that's potentially a trigger for you please be warned ahead of time! Thanks.

Evidently, Michael Jones didn’t make offers that people were allowed to refuse. He’d taken Ryan’s silence for an affirmative, and it was six thirty-three when he showed up at his bedroom door to pick him up.

“Dude, you’re not even dressed!” He shouted, shoving Ryan’s door open to find the man reclined in bed, a can of diet coke in one hand, his laptop open on his chest. “What, you think just cuz you broke your leg being a dumbass means you get to flake out on me and Gav?” Michael was shouting at him, and it was impossible to tell if he was actually angry or if he was just pretending – and with Michael, did it really matter? Even when he was being fake-mad he’d still knock your teeth down your throat and then laugh about it.

“Well, I didn’t-“ Ryan faltered, shutting his computer. He looked like shit, truth be told. His hair was down, laying over his shoulders in messy, unbrushed waves, and the bags under his eyes were in spectacular form on this particular evening. He was, indeed, not dressed aside from a pair of boxers with little hammers on them.

“Didn’t..?” Michael asked, and there was a dangerous tilt to his voice then, his eyebrows drawing down. Thaaat was probably not good. That was the “I’m going to put a live grenade in your mouth and pull the pin if you say something I don’t like” face.

“Uh.” He scrambled, sitting up and putting the can on the side table. “Didn’t realize what time it was. Sorry.” He hadn’t recognized the dinner invite as a dinner demand. Rookie mistake.

Michael seemed to visibly relax at that, the darkness in his expression receding back to nothing, leaving just the chipper bullying that Ryan was familiar with. It was always scary how Michael managed to switch gears like that. Extra scary considering you could never tell what he was actually feeling at any given moment. He was unreadable in a way so chaotic it set Ryan’s teeth on edge sometimes.

“Oh. Well shit, dude, read the fuckin’ clock. Made me think you weren’t gonna come.” He crossed the room, leaving the door open behind himself, and busied himself with cracking open Ryan’s suitcase. “Here, I’ll get you some clothes, get your fat, lazy ass outta bed.”

There was something that made his heart feel heavy in the way Michael worked. The effortless familiarity he held with everyone in the Crew, including Ryan, despite Ryan’s best attempts at maintaining distance. He was the kind of kid who, once he knew you were a part of his group, would treat you like a sibling. It was probably reassuring to most people – that warm, comfortable ease around him, his careless ribbing of everyone within his field of view. Mostly it just made Ryan feel queasy. Like he didn’t deserve to experience it.

Actually, he felt like he didn’t deserve to know Michael at all, sometimes. After all, he was refusing the guy any personal knowledge on his own part, wasn’t he? It felt unfair. He felt cornered.

He was lost in that train of thought up until he felt a pile of clothes smack him in the chest.

“Hello? You ignoring me, bitch?” Michael was looking at him, eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest.

Everything was starting to feel syrupy and distant, and that was a pretty bad sign considering he had a date to go on. Great. Cool. Ryan drew a deep inhale, “Sorry. Kinda out of it.”

“I can tell, freak.” Michael smiled at him, stepping over to Ryan’s side and tapping him on the head. “Did you smack your noggin when you fell down?”

“Uh, I-“ Ryan swallowed, his mouth going cottony. Michael looked lovely – he always looked lovely – beautiful and dangerous. He reminded Ryan of an imp or something. Mischievous and cruel to a fault, always laughing that nasty little laugh of his.

He forced his eyes away, but evidently it was too late.

“See something you like?” Michael’s voice was hoarse and he followed up with another one of those raspy, bemused strings of laughter. “Hmhmhmhm.” Ryan felt his heart do a somersault.

“No. I was just… thinking.” He shifted back, away from the other man. Defensive. Scared. “Just… Just back off, Michael.” He said, sterner than he figured he could manage.

He felt like he was fucking melting and that lack of control was really frustrating. It was like he’d been cast into a choppy ocean, one that was dragging him under. He was being swallowed up by a tsunami of feelings that he’d been desperately trying to ignore.

Michael snorted at him and doubled forward – ever one for a challenge. His eyes were sparkly with the idea of a fight. “I wasn’t fronting on you, man. What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“I don’t have a problem!” He shouted suddenly, scrambling fully back across the mattress until his spine hit the wall. He felt like a child – pathetic, running away from his problems. His head felt weird and cottony. God damnit.

Michael raised an eyebrow at him, rocked on his heels. Weighing his options. Deciding if it’d be more fun to pry or to leave it.

“I think you’ve got lots of problems, dude. Just fucking look at you.”

With that, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the door. He was barely in the hallway when he yelled, “Hey Gav, looks like it’s just you and me! Ryan’s being a fuckin’ pussy!”

He sat there, bare skin against the wall, heart hammering in his chest, and listened to the sound of Michael’s boots on the carpet slowly fade as he headed down the hall.

He should… go. He knew he should go, knew he should man the fuck up and face his fears. And what was he afraid of in the first place? Of Michael Jones? Of Gavin? Hardly. No, the thing that was making him anxious, the thing driving him into a frustrated dissociative fog for days and days and days was… It was bigger than that.

When he thought about it in proper words it felt silly. He was in love with… With who? With Michael? Maybe. He certainly found him attractive – his pale freckly skin, marred with dozens upon dozens of little scars, his dark eyes, his cruel little laugh that felt like it was directed _just _at you, the way he managed to dig his heels into whatever argument he wanted to make… He was a firey little bastard, headstrong in a way that reminded him a lot of—

And there it was. That was it, right? That was the biggest problem. Reminiscing. Letting himself be filled up by weakness like an empty bottle. He couldn’t do that anymore. Couldn’t let himself be soft. Softness would get him fired. Softness would make him kill himself.

In this line of work you didn’t get to be soft. He’d been telling himself that since he’d left, since he’d abandoned the boring life he’d made for himself in pursuit of a cruel, disgusting thrill. In this city, it was either normalcy or violence. He didn’t get to have both. He didn’t deserve to have both.

He’d buckled forward, his face pressed into his hands, his breathing coming harsh and fast. He was so weak. Such a fool.

And it wasn’t _just _Michael, was it? No, he could deal with that, could manage to get past one little crush on a man that reminded him of someone he’d done well to forget.

If it was just Michael then he wouldn’t feel that same panic when Jack touched him, when she kissed his forehead and left his skin burning, left words choked off in his throat. Jacklyn was fire too, wasn’t she? She was all volatile energy, she was plane crashes and stupid jokes, she was level-headed in a way that nobody else here could afford to be. She was a holding force, warm and pure and just as likely to cause damage as any of the rest of them. Beautiful and deadly and somehow still so _safe. _

Jack and Michael and… And Geoff. Geoff, Geoff was the hardest one to get over for some reason. The hardest to even _acknowledge. _He was his boss first and foremost, that was what Ryan had always told himself. A man who he occasionally worked with in regards to planning heists, a man he often argued with, a man who wasn’t afraid to tell Ryan he was a fucking idiot, to cut down the bravado in him when it grew too tall and too frustrating.

Geoff was… clarifying. He was manic at the best of times, high as a kite and running on pure unbridled chaos energy, but he was also… also not afraid of him. He would tell Ryan to fuck off even if the other man had a gun against his head. He was strong in a way that not a lot of other people were, and in rare moments there was a kindness and a quiet in him that made Ryan feel like his heart was in his throat. When Geoff Ramsey looked at you like that – like what you were saying was the center of his whole universe – you really… really felt important.

It didn’t stop there. He wished it stopped there. Falling for three of his colleagues felt like an insurmountable thing already. He’d said he was done, he’d committed to not getting involved with anyone, God forbid people he worked with, and here he was…

In love with goddamned _all_ of them, right? Or at the very least _almost _in love with them.

All of them included Gavin, and of course it included Gavin. Everyone who ever met the guy was in love with him, it was stupid to assume he’d be exempt. Gavin Free, the Golden Boy, the idiot savant. Gavin who sparkled like gunmetal under a streetlamp, Gavin who would stop at nothing to take things apart just to see how they worked.

Gavin, the man who wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d figured him out entirely. Whereas Michael was willing to give up a line of questioning he knew he wouldn’t be able to break through, Gavin would just come at it from another angle, use something sharp or heavy to crack it open, even if it meant drawing blood.

Especially if it meant drawing blood.

He groaned into his palms, brows furrowed tight. He didn’t want to think about this shit. He didn’t want to think about how fucking _juvenile _he was being. In love with the whole of the Fakes, like he was some misguided fan, like he didn’t know them all personally, know their flaws and their quirks. It was childish of him. Stupid.

He should’ve just gone to dinner with the Lads. Should’ve just… let himself keep burying this below the surface instead of working himself into a panic over it.

He didn’t deserve them. Didn’t deserve to even _consider _that they might like him back, that they might be interested in him. He would let them down or hurt them one way or another, and he’d fucking committed to not doing that again. It didn’t matter that they were criminals too. They still didn’t deserve to experience the curse he carried with him, the too-much gene that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of.

He should leave. Get Gavin to delete his file and run as far away as he could, drop the Vagabond and take up a new mantle. Or hell, maybe he should just dive headfirst into the Bay.

“Oi, Ryaaaan.” The door slammed open so hard it smacked into the wall. Two sets of feet. Evidently, Team Nice Dynamite hadn’t left yet. Great.

He sniffed hard, trying to cover up the fact that he was crying – when had he started fucking crying?

“Shit, man, what is your _deal.” _Michael sounded exasperated, tugging the door closed behind him.

And what was his deal? Why had his perfect plan to carefully shove down all his emotions backfired on him so hard, twisted around until he seemed to be suffocating beneath them? He didn’t know how to articulate any of that without sounding like an idiot. He didn’t _want _to articulate any of it.

Why should he let them know what his problem was? Why should they be entitled to knowing what was going on in his head? He was getting frustrated and that frustration was turning into anger – unreasonable, perhaps, but defensive. He was just protecting himself.

He ground his teeth together, pulled his knee up to his chest. His broken leg lay flat in front of him – another reminder of his fucking failures. God damnit. He was such an idiot.

“Aw, Micoo, don’t be a prick…” Gavin’s voice was soft, like he got when he was talking about a baby kitten or a bunny rabbit or something. Sympathetic. It made Ryan sick. He didn’t want sympathy, he wanted respect, he wanted distance. He didn’t need comforting. He didn’t _need _anything.

He didn’t get the chance to throw his fit, though.

Gavin sidled up beside him on the bed, sitting on his vulnerable side, and just kind of… looked at him. He was all dressed up for dinner – dress shirt and slacks, sunglasses on his head. It was a good look on him, Ryan thought distantly. It was such a… normal look. Unassuming. It belied the nasty little bastard lying underneath.

He scooted away from him with a frustrated grunt. He wanted to talk, wanted to tell them to leave him alone, but the words were locked tight in the back of his throat. He couldn’t make his tongue move.

It didn’t matter if he spoke or not, though. If you were alone in a room with Team Nice Dynamite, you didn’t get to leave until they were finished with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!! I really appreciate all of them and I hope you guys like where I'm going with this. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more panic attack stuff as well as minor descriptions of violence and brief mentions of suicidal ideation. 
> 
> Things aren't resolved, but maybe they're a tiny bit better by the end.

There was a lot that was uncomplicated about killing people. Maybe it _should’ve _been complicated, maybe if he was more mentally sound it _would’ve _been complicated. But no, killing people was easy. Unfettered. Nowadays, it meant release and excitement and the patter of blood falling to the floor in front of him.

It had been even less complicated before he’d joined the Fakes, but that was the _problem_, right? That lack of complexity, of stimulation. The feeling of shooting a man from a rooftop with a silenced rifle was entirely different from the feeling of cracking a man’s skull open against the door frame of a bank vault.

He’d come here looking for complexity, for complication, for excitement. He’d joined the Fakes because he needed change so badly that he thought he would die without it. Now, though, sitting across from Michael Jones, with Gavin perched by his side, he wasn’t sure that he was ready for this much change. He wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Maybe things had been easier before. Boring enough to have him constantly contemplating suicide, but… Maybe it was preferable to whatever this was. Maybe Fate had wanted him to kill himself in that empty apartment before Gavin showed up. Maybe he’d cheated the system by coming here at all.

He didn’t know if all that was true, but right now, it might’ve been. He didn’t know how to handle the mounting sense of deep discomfort, the desperation for affection and attention that he was slowly starting to lose his grip on.

Maybe he was just cursed to a life of constant discomfort, no matter what.

“Ryan.” Gavin’s voice was still mushy-soft, like he was trying to talk to a child, and it made impotent rage swirl in Ryan’s stomach. He wasn’t- he didn’t need that. He didn’t need this shit.

But he couldn’t really run away. Not with his leg busted and certainly not now that _Gavin _wanted to know what was going on. Maybe Michael would’ve dropped it, but… The both of them together was going to be inescapable.

And then there were terrible, soft fingers against his face, wiping at the tears on his cheekbones, and he withdrew so violently he hit his head on the wall. He made a frustrated grunt, covering his face and shaking his head.

“Oi! Alright, alright, sorry.” Gavin’s hand fell back down to his lap and he glanced over at Michael, confused.

They didn’t say anything to each other, but Ryan knew what the exchange meant. They were wondering what was wrong with him, amazed at the fact that the Vagabond was evidently a huge, broken pansy of a man. He felt his shoulders shudder, bit down on the urge to start panicking. Fuck. God fucking damnit.

He wondered how hard it would be to pivot across the room and jump out the window.

“Alright, if you’re not gonna talk to us, that’s fiiiine.” Michael drawled after another thousand years of awkward silence. Ryan didn’t know if he appreciated that or not.

“Yeh! We’ll just sit here ‘til you’ve calmed down.” Gavin, while not good at talking emotion, was actually fairly well versed in this area. Ryan had witnessed the man in the center of a fit of under-stimulation, the sensory dissonance usually manifested as kinetic energy, as destruction and noise and violence until he was wobbling unsteadily in the center of the wreckage.

He was tapping his long fingers against his kneecap, still sitting right by Ryan’s side, his eyes glued patiently to his face. He was expecting him to snap at some point, for the nonverbal to swap over to _motion_, for him to take a swing or shout or something. That was how it went for him, after all. Why would it be different for Ryan?

Ryan had expected to be made fun of – for the lads to sit here and roast him until he really, truly wanted to die. He didn’t know what he’d _do _then, didn’t know if he’d just dissolve through the floorboards like the pathetic worm he was.

He hadn’t expected this quiet, this gentle sense of comradery. They were just sitting with him, giving him time and keeping him company. It was foreign in the extreme – it made him less uncomfortable than he’d expected.

At the same time, there was a not-so-quiet voice in the back of his head proclaiming that it was all fake. That neither of them were here out of any sense of empathy or affection, that they were both just gathering blackmail material, examining him while he was raw and exposed, searching for weak points to exploit.

After a long period of silence, Gavin apparently could hold his tongue no longer. “So wot’s gotcha all silent, luv? Did you get overwhelmed?”

Michael shot him a derisive look, his brows furrowed. “Shut the fuck up, Gavin! How’s he gonna answer your questions if he ain’t calmed the hell down yet?” He sounded like he was taking that _personally, _and it made Ryan’s heart swell in his chest. Michael defending him was new in and of itself, pushed him closer to actually believing they were here with good intentions.

He sniffed hard, trying his best to get his stupid throat to unlock. If he could speak maybe he could diffuse the situation.

That was a funny thought. He’d never been good with words, why would he start now?

“I was just trying to see how he’s sodding doing, Michael! Both of us wanna know what’s goin’ on here, I’m entitled to askin-“

“You’re not entitled to dick, you dicky bitch! Shut up!”

Gavin squawked, and then Michael was piled up on top of him, pinning a squirmy, shouting Gavin against the corner where the mattress and the wall intersected.

Ryan laughed. A wet, unflattering snort, his eyes crinkling shut, a grin cracking across his face. There was so much absurdity in this whole ordeal, in the fact that _these_ _two _were trying to play therapist as opposed to Geoff or Jack… The fact that it was apparently working_ better_ than sitting with Jack or Geoff might’ve…

He couldn’t stop himself, buckling forward, laughing so hard there were tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Michael and Gavin stopped their scrambling, Michael’s hand still resting around Gavin’s throat, and looked over at him.

“What’s so funny, Ryan?” Gavin asked, a confused grin on his face.

“He probably likes watching you get your ass kicked, man.” Michael responded, slapping Gavin lightly on the cheek. He didn’t climb off of him, but he did sit up, shifting to watch Ryan completely lose his shit.

He pressed his fingers to his temples, inhaling with a little noise as he tried to get a hold of himself. “Christ.” He mumbled, his voice finally returning to him.

He was still smiling, his eyes watery, his lip trembling a bit. “They oughta give you two some kind of award.”

“For what?” Gavin chirped. Michael pulled his hair.

“For being sickass therapists, bitch! All we gotta do is go up to fucked up freaks like this and make ‘em laugh and then they pay us. Ryan, that’ll be a million dollars.”

“Cash only!”

“Yeah, cash only.”

“The award is for annoying me out of a panic attack.” He replied, letting his head rest against the drywall. He still felt kind of tense and closed-up, but the laughter had helped a lot, and maybe so had the company.

He disliked the implication that that meant he might _need _other people, though. That was his biggest roadblock, wasn’t it?

“So what was that about, dude? Did you not wanna go to dinner that bad?” Michael offered after a moment, reclining all over Gavin, the two of them tangled together with the easy, casual affection that they seemed to always possess. Ryan found himself envying it. Wishing he could be a part of something like that.

And goddamnit, that was it, wasn’t it? That was his singular, core issue. Not a dinner invite, but the fact that the other Fakes had _someone _– some of them had more than _one _someone – someone to cling to in moments of unsureness, to egg them on, to hold them through laughter and bloodshed and tears. There was so much vulnerability in this gang, all of it echoing between members, carefully mitigated, always taken care of.

It terrified him. It felt like trying to do a trust fall off the edge of a cliff.

“No, I just…” He didn’t know what to say or how to say it. He didn’t know where to start. The idea of just saying that he wanted _affection _felt awful, felt embarrassing and creepy. The fact that he needed someone to touch him, to see him… He was terrified of that vulnerability. He hated the idea of someone _knowing _him that deeply, that closely. Even opening his mouth to talk about it felt impossible.

Why did they deserve to witness his steady drop into lunacy? His slow, rattling descent into loneliness and desperation and anxiety?

His face had gone dark again, his eyes going kind of distant, and then Michael had climbed off of Gavin’s lap and situated himself practically in Ryan’s. He didn’t pay a single bit of attention to the fact that he still had a busted leg, sitting right on top of his thigh and catching his face between his hands. Ryan frowned.

“Hey, idiot, stay with us. You don’t gotta talk if you don’t want to.”

That sucked. He hated that Michael was saying things he _needed _and _wanted _to hear so badly in this moment. He hated that he was so close and warm and that he was fucking _helping him-_

The terrible, terrible concept of letting himself be known, of exposing his inner workings to these people was becoming more and more at the forefront of his mind. It terrified him.

“I’m scared.” He managed after a moment. The admission itself felt like he was killing himself, like he was suddenly being flung off into the great dark abyss at his feet. He wondered how long it would take the boys to start laughing at him.

“Well…” Michael started, brows furrowed. “What the fuck are you scared of?”

“S’this really just about going out to dinner, Ryan? We don’t have to go out! Geoffrey’s got leftovers-“

Ryan snorted softly, tears welling up in his eyes. He was an idiot. A blind, terrified idiot.

Maybe he’d been holding out for no reason. Maybe these criminals were nothing to fear. After all, they’d sustained these relationships with each other, hadn’t they?

That thought still brought him back to square one, to the fact that he didn’t know if he _deserved _any affection or attention or sympathy. But with both Gavin and Michael’s eyes locked on his face, he shoved those doubts down for the time being.

“I-I don’t…” He shook his head, but he was smiling wryly, the worst of his panic having been assuaged. He was an idiot, one who couldn’t make his brain and his mouth connect, but Michael seemed to understand that.

He sat there and stared at him for a while, his gaze more intense than Ryan could focus on, before clambering back out of his lap and plopping down in front of Gavin. “Well, I’m fuckin’ hungry. Gav, order some pizza.”

Gavin gave him a curious look, but he was already digging his phone out of his pocket. Their dinner date could wait a while, that was fine. He was still curious, wanted to pry further, but it didn’t seem like Ryan was in any state to try discussing things. “What kind of pizza?”

And just like that, they were taking care of him again. He sat back against the wall and watched them argue over pizza toppings, his heart rate slowly decreasing, settling back to normal, and wondered what the hell was going on, and how he’d wound up indoctrinated into the Team Nice Dynamite Feel-Better Party.

Whatever the case, he guessed he didn’t mind that much. It was surprising, and very, very strange, but… It wasn’t something he wanted to pry at. There was affection here, maybe, and he was too starved of the stuff to go pushing it away right now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mildly NSFW. Things are heating up! Minor mentions of drug use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a few more references to Ghosts Don't Talk although it pretty much explains anything you might need to know. Feel free to read that one for a little more context and a lot more porn, though!

The ordeal with Michael and Gavin did not leave the back of his mind for the following several weeks. It was hard for him to wrap his head around - the fact that they’d been both sympathetic to his evident stress _ and _actually helpful… It almost felt out of character. Like maybe he hadn’t given them enough consideration.

They were, after all, people just like he was. They weren’t untouchable chaos entities like they sometimes seemed; not reckless, cruel criminals. Just people. People with their own issues. 

He woke up the next morning with pizza trash still sitting on his bedside table, feeling lighter than he had in years. They hadn’t done anything besides sit around and talk to fill the silence, but the easy rapport that they had with each other made Ryan feel calm. It was so comfortable, so pleasant to be around. They ribbed each other constantly, but in the same breath Gavin would start cooing about something nonsensical and Michael would reply with equal fervor, and then they’d be talking about video games or events from earlier heists and…

It felt good. It felt like being a part of something, even if he wasn’t contributing to the conversation very much.

Now, he was lying perched on the edge of an abandoned building on the seedier side of Los Santos, a rifle sight in front of his face. He didn’t do sniper work very much at all anymore, but this was an important recon mission before they went on the proper heist. The building they were looking at was full to the brim with explosives - explosives that, Geoff had shouted repeatedly and directly at Michael, “Need to remain UNEXPLODED.”

The only other person here was Gavin, and even he wasn’t really _ here _with him - just sitting down the street in a comfy black van, watching a set of drone cameras and listening to Ryan’s casual observations of their mark.

It was kind of relaxing, actually. The night hung heavy and quiet above him, tainted with the glow of light pollution but no less peaceful, and the knowledge that Gavin was resting nearby, like Big Brother, was kind of… nice. It made him feel less alone.

“Ryan?” His comm crackled in his ear and he perked up, once more focusing down the sight.

“Yes, Gavin?” He’d been a tiny bit less cranky with the Brit recently, although he refused to examine why.

“Do you figure birds know that they’re birds?” 

He swallowed a groan, rolling his eyes. The position he was in was kind of uncomfortable on his still cast-bound leg, but he was making do. Laying flat on his stomach was okay. “I don’t know, Gavin. Do you know that you’re a bird?” 

His response was met with an indignant squawk, and the sound of muffled giggling. Got him. “I’m not a bleedin’ bird, you slag.” He responded, although there was very little venom behind the insult. 

It made Ryan’s heart swell, made him feel weird. This was casual, wasn’t it? Maybe a little closer to friendly than their other conversations had been. It was… nice. He was maintaining that this whole little change was nice, repeating it to himself until the surge of panic died down.

He clicked the safety on his gun off. Back on. Off again.

“What’s a slag?” He asked, voice low and rumbly. Amused.

“S’like a whore.” He could hear Gavin moving around on the other side of the intercom, probably bored out of his mind. He watched as one of the little drones buzzed right above the building, dipped down to push inside an open window. 

“You think I’m a whore? Ouch. I’m a very respectable lady of the evening, if anything.”

“Nah, I know a slag when I see one, Ryan! And you’re definitely a slag, Ryan.” He kept repeating his name - every sentence, sometimes twice a sentence. He’d heard him do that with Michael too, like he was trying to keep his attention. It was endearing. 

“Well, I respectfully disagree.”

“Can’t disagree if I know it’s a fact, luv.  
  
Ryan snorted then, a stifled little laugh that made the barrel of his gun dip.

“Watch out. Gonna miss your mark if ya wiggle too much, Ryan.” That comment got his attention, made a chill he didn’t care to analyze run down his spine.

“Are you watching me, Gavin?”

“Course!” He chirped, and then Ryan realized that what he’d assumed was another city-noise was actually the dull hum of a drone. He craned his neck, looked at the black robot hovering above him, almost invisible against the dark sky. “I gotta keep tabs on everyone, don’t I, Ryan?” 

That was… that was a familiar tone of voice. That was the voice he had heard the first night he’d met Gavin properly, the night he’d murdered the man in cold blood, and all the things that came afterwards.

He was surprised he’d grown so accustomed to Gavin’s _ nice _voice that it had become unusual to hear him talking to him with that signature bemused lilt. Golden Boy style. 

“Hm. I’m not a mark, though.” Ryan replied, keeping his tone even despite the oh-so-familiar shiver that these sudden memories were dredging up. Hands in his hair, the weight of Gavin’s cock on his tongue.

“Dunno about that!” He was so fucking cheery. So casual. “Who says I’m not a double agent? Maybe I’m workin’ for, I dunno, some other gang.” He apparently hadn’t cared enough to memorize any other gang names.

“Well, Geoff would hate to hear that.” Ryan’s fingers were getting sweaty in his gloves. He clicked the safety back on. Off. On. Off.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten into this predicament, honestly. How he’d been introduced to the gang with a sex act and followed it up by being as distant as possible from all of them. Maybe he was worried about getting closer than that first night. Maybe he was worried about having to reckon with the feelings Gavin had left him with when he’d shut the door. Maybe he’d have to examine the fact that he’d _ missed him _as if he hadn’t just broken into his house and gotten his dick sucked and left.

Maybe there were a lot of things Ryan didn’t want to dig into. Maybe it made his chest feel tight.

“Geoffrey knows I’m a double agent! He’s a double agent too. We’re all double agents.”

“Wouldn’t that just make this whole gang kind of moot, then?” Ryan managed to keep his voice level.

“I’unno. Probably.” Ryan could almost see it now - see Gavin with his feet kicked up on the desk inside that van, his converse illuminated in the blue glow of the computer monitors. All casual, lanky angles. Handsome in the dark, probably a little sweaty from the heat…

He cleared his throat, adjusted his hips.

“Have you seen anything important?”

“Oh, I’m seein’ something important right now.” Gavin’s voice was tinged with amusement. The sound of the drone grew louder as he angled it lower. “You mind stretchin’ out a bit more for me, luv?”

Ryan felt his heart rise into his throat, block off his ability to breathe. He didn’t move, his whole body sinking into flight-mode, like he was in the middle of a heist and he’d been pinned down without a weapon. He felt _ vulnerable. _

It was not… a terrible feeling. Despite his misgivings about letting anyone inside his carefully constructed shell, the brief concept of Gavin knocking his walls down like that was kind of thrilling. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? Marched right into his house with blood sticking to his shirt and enacted revenge - a revenge that had been a lot sweeter than anything Ryan could’ve ever expected.

In a way, he kind of owed Gavin his life, didn’t he?

He didn’t realize he hadn’t responded until Gavin spoke up again. “You still with me?” He asked, voice not the least concerned. “Did I spook you?”

“No. I’m fine.” He said, maybe a little shortly. His heart was hammering in his chest. He hadn’t seen a single person come in or out of the stupid building.

“Are you, luv? You look sweaty. Are you sweaty, Ryan?” Gavin leaned in closer to his mic, the sound of his voice so fuzzy and close that it made Ryan shudder.

“It’s nearly ninety degrees and I’m wearing a leather jacket.” He answered, trying to keep his cool.

Maybe if he stayed calm, Gavin would back off.

“You could take it off!” He replied, happy as ever. Ryan had gone on enough heists at this point to have heard about what kinds of shenanigans Gavin was prone to when he got bored. Violence and sex seemed to be the main themes.

“No, thank you.” He replied, although his tone wavered.

Gavin sank his teeth into that brief show of vulnerability like a lion to a wounded antelope. “No? What, ya not interested in getting comfortable? I’m awfully comfortable right now. Maybe you should come down here and get in my van. I’ve got this nice aircon…” 

“Gavin, you probably shouldn’t invite people into your van. Kind of creepy.” He snorted, lowering his head and fumbling with the gun safety again. “What’s an aircon?”

“Oh, sod off. You’re not a child!” He snorted, indignant but still amused. “Aircon! Yanno, the air conditioner. S’just a cheeky bit of slang.”

“Sorry, I don’t speak British.” Ryan responded, sitting up with a grunt. It took some maneuvering, tucking his injured leg back in front of himself as he regained a sitting position. “I don’t think we’re getting anything tonight, Gavin. You wanna pack it in?”

“Oh, I wanna pack it in alrigh-”

“Okay. I’m coming downstairs.” With that, he got to his feet, grabbing at the crutch on the ground beside him. A sniper using crutches. What a concept.

\---

As it turned out, healing sucked. He hadn’t been this out of commission before in his _ life _ , and the fact that he couldn’t do any proper heists for two _ months _meant that he was becoming overwhelmingly stir crazy. He couldn’t even go out and kill people with a stupid cast on his leg! He’d be hobbling away from the scene of the crime so slowly the cops could just walk over and get him.

The visual of the Vagabond getting arrested like that was kind of funny, though.

He was on week four now, and he’d been camping out at Geoff’s penthouse for the vast majority of that time. He’d intended to only stay a week or so - enough that Jack felt confident he could fend for himself - but that week had stretched and stretched until he was pretty sure he was going to be staying here until he could walk properly again.

Really, he didn’t mind it. The company was nice, especially now that he was slowly allowing himself to lower his defenses a little. He felt kind of pathetic, honestly - like a newly adopted dog that refused to stop barking at the people who kept trying to pet it. 

That was a pretty good analogy, actually. He felt like a stupid, wounded puppy that these criminals had adopted. It was a vulnerable feeling, one that had left him disconnected from the other Fakes, but now that he was settling down, it was kind of nice. It made him feel like he’d been chosen for a reason.

He had to keep reminding himself that Geoff had picked him on purpose, that he’d been aiming to hire him even if he hadn’t found Gavin at that club. Even if he hadn’t killed Gavin at that club, actually.

He rested his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Geoff was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, playing Halo by himself. Gavin was supposed to come over but, apparently, “He’s too busy being a little fruitcake and running around town with Burnie.” 

That was what Geoff said, anyway.

The sound of the video game was kind of relaxing. House sounds were weird for him - they reminded him of a place he’d been a long time ago, a place he’d left of his own volition. The noise of the dishwasher running and the sound of the AC humming… It was domestic. This whole situation was domestic.

“Fuck! Goddamnit!” Geoff shouted, flailing a leg out in front of him and tossing his Xbox controller across the room. It skittered into the wall with a loud clatter. 

Ryan raised his head, looking up at the Mission Failed screen in front of him. Geoff’s TV was almost comically large considering how fucking close to it he was sitting, but the older man had Gavin’s penchant for squirming around when he played games. He had started on the couch, and migrated closer as time went on.

“Did you win?” He asked sardonically, giving Geoff a soft little smirk as he glowered at him.

“Yeah, Ryan, I fuckin’ won the game and got the prize. Fuck!” He got to his feet, tottering a little, and grabbed a glass off the coffee table.

“Looks like it.” He shifted back in his seat, adjusting the position of his cast. 

Geoff strode over, flopping down by Ryan’s side and levelling him with a sideways glance. He wasn’t drunk, but he was maybe a little high. Not unusual. He reached out, curled his tattooed fingers under Ryan’s jaw. “When you gonna get back out on the streets for me, Haywood?”

Ryan felt his mouth go dry, and he swallowed, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. “Soon as my leg bones are fused, sir.” He replied, quieter than he’d intended. God, Geoff really sucked the air clean out of his lungs when he looked at him. He was a wreck.

“Mhmmm.” Geoff petted at the stubble on Ryan’s cheek before withdrawing his hand, “You’re the only asshole who does his fucking JOB besides Jack.” 

“Ray is a good sniper.” He offered. This felt intimate. Quiet, and close.

“Ray’s a temp.” Geoff’s fingers landed on his own leg, tapping out an antsy rhythm.

“Why not hire him full time?” He was a damn good shot. Better than anyone else in the Fakes, certainly.

Geoff made an ambivalent kind of groan, rolling his eyes. “I’ve fuckin’ asked him a hundred times, man! He’s got other plans, I guess.”

Well. Ryan couldn’t argue with that. He just nodded along. He wanted to touch Geoff’s face, the way he’d touched his. People were always touching him, weren’t they? He felt like he should be more inclined to protest that invasion of privacy.

He looked at him, looked at his chapped lips and the way his eyes were dilated, and the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Geoff looked older than he was, sometimes. Like the stress of the city had already worn itself deep into his bones.

It was hard to think about Los Santos without thinking about Geoff. He was like the whole of the place in human form - reckless and powerful, and maybe also a little dirty. 

Ryan found it entrancing. It wasn’t that he himself was power hungry, but the idea that you could get close to someone like that, the concept that Geoff was _ human _ and _ kind _ and _ complex… _It made him want to curl against him, to kiss the secrets out of his mouth.

“You’re staring.” Geoff sounded a little bemused, but he was smiling softly, one eyebrow raised. “Do I have something on my face?”

Ryan wanted to say “no.” He wanted to turn away, to stop looking at him, to hide again.

He was tired of hiding shit, though. Tired of not taking chances, of sitting around and wishing he could get back to the action, get back to cracking people open, breaking them down. Releasing the pent-up stress that was driving him up a fucking wall.

He was tired of letting himself overthink.

So he leaned forward, and caught the back of Geoff’s head in one hand, and then he was kissing him and it was firm and kind of awkward and needy. Geoff stiffened - surprised - but he didn’t pull away.

When Ryan had finished being impulsive, he leaned away from him, his heart hammering in his chest, his ears ringing. He regretted it almost immediately. He was an idiot. A definitely fired, definitely dead idiot.

Why Geoff? Why would he kiss _ Geoff? _ Kissing Michael or Gavin or even Jack would’ve been easier, would’ve been less complicated, but Geoff was his boss, Geoff was the Kingpin, and he was going to scowl at him and then he was going to kill him and then he was going to respawn and get killed _ again _ and--

“Heh.” Geoff laughed, eyebrows raised, a crooked smile on his face. That… wasn’t anger. Okay. Maybe he was faking it, leading him on so he could catch him off guard.  
  
“Shit, dude, if you wanna make out we might have to ask Gavver first. He’s a tiny bit jealous.”

...What? What? No. No, no, “No, uh, I-” He spluttered, fumbling back across the couch, scooting away from Geoff until the arm of the sofa stopped him. “I’m sorry. That was an accident.”

“An accident, huh?” Geoff snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I ain’t never seen someone accidentally start sucking face with their boss before.”

“I just. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. That was- this was a mistake.” He sounded pathetic, his voice wavering. He was an idiot. Why did he keep making these messes?

Geoff reached out, put a warm, heavy hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Heeeey, c’mon. Relax, buddy. You’re gonna give yourself a stroke.” 

He could already feel his presence in the situation waning, Geoff’s voice getting distant, like he had cotton stuffed in his ears. Shit. “I-"

“Shh.” Geoff soothed him, his eyes focused on Ryan’s face, unwavering. He looked so _ kind. _It made it hard to reconcile how many lives he’d taken, how many violent crimes he’d committed. It reminded Ryan of the first time he’d come to Los Santos - of how transfixed he’d been with the city lights, glimmering and beautiful and full of false hope. A cover for the filthy, cruel thing underneath.

But… he didn’t know if he believed that Geoff’s softness was a ruse. He felt like it would’ve been obvious if it were false - like the hand on his skin would hold more edge, be more threatening. There would be cracks, wouldn’t there? Most facades had cracks.

Geoff didn’t try to press the issue any further. He could see the way Ryan was panicking, and instead of trying to kiss him again, he just settled back against the couch and switched the input on the TV over to cable. “Here, let’s see if Michael and Jackie made the news this evening.” He said, voice kind and belying more softness than he articulated. It was an excuse to change the subject.

Ryan’s heart was still hammering, his hands balled into fists by his sides, but he took the out he was given. If Geoff didn’t think it was a big deal, then it wasn’t a big deal. Everything was fine.

“What, uh… What were they up to?” He managed, his voice an anxious croak.

“S’posta be cruising for new bomber jets, I think.” He crossed his bony ankles, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

“I can’t see how that _ wouldn’t _make the news.”

And just like that, it was normal again. The dynamic was back - domestic and casual - despite how shaken up Ryan remained. Maybe he was the only one working things into a lather, actually. Maybe the reason the rest of the Fakes maintained such easy intimacy was that they just didn’t _ care. _That it was just a part of life.

He didn’t know how long it would take him to get to that point, but in this moment, he desperately hoped he’d get there eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to properly write Ray into this since he's stated that he doesn't want to be included in fancontent anymore! I did make brief mention of him in this chapter to reconcile the timeline, and I figure that's probably as far as we'll get in respect to his presence. Jeremy is going to show up in a while!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is more Jack-centric cuz I love her and she doesn't get enough attention.

The airport was loud. The constant bustle of machinery, the never-ending hum-turned-shriek of aircraft landing and taking off. For Ryan, it was kind of overwhelming at worst, and marginally interesting at best.

For Jack, though, this place was thrilling. She’d taught herself how to fly from dozens upon dozens of handbooks and training modules and online videos, mostly out of a piqued interest and partly because she wanted to contribute. Their gang had been so fucking young back when she’d joined - all of them were still Roosters, her and Geoff and Burnie and Gus.

Flying was a freedom that she hadn’t realized she’d craved - it was the absolutely earth-shattering thrill of feeling her ears pop, watching the world around her draw back until the blue of the sky swallowed her whole. Unstoppable. Untouchable.

“Gav wants some stupid solid-gold jet, but I told him he’s just going to destroy the damn thing as soon as he spends the million bucks on it.” She was fumbling around with a control panel set into a desk… or something? Ryan wasn’t actually sure what any of this shit was. Aircraft were way out of his area of expertise.

“Well, I guess that’s his lesson to learn.” His voice was muffled behind the hard plastic of his mask. He was sweating his grease paint off already, some of it leaking into his eyes. It was a familiar sting, one that reminded him again that he should probably shoot for a nicer brand next time. Something less water-soluble.

“Not if it’s Geoff’s money!” She sounded annoyed, but she was smiling a little, taking note of read-outs and stuff. Both of them knew that, while Jack ribbed Gavin more than Michael did sometimes, she loved the guy.

Ryan leaned his butt up against another little computery-countertop, looking down at Jack where she was sitting. “Well, if Geoff gives it to him does that make it Gavin’s money?”

He’d gotten a lot more talkative over the last few weeks, as if the preceding year of his employment here had all been lead-up. And in a way, it had, he considered. It hadn’t really felt like that long, considering he’d been so caught up in his own head, so determined to remain aloof and distant.

He couldn’t be happier that he’d let those walls slip a little more with each passing day. In a big way, he was kind of grateful for his sudden crisis of emotions. He felt more whole now, just a little.

There was still a lot of anxiety, though. A lot of worry about doing things he wouldn’t be able to take back. Things with unforeseen consequences.

He had no doubt that Geoff had probably told her about the thing that had happened between them. It had been almost a month now - long enough that he was finally free of his cast and was able to go on heists again (albeit, ones that didn’t require running.)

She hadn’t mentioned it to him, but he could kind of see it in her eyes, in the way she’d give him a knowing little smirk every so often.

It made him feel antsy. Like at any moment she was going to pin him down and ask what the fuck he thought he was kidding, ask why he had decided that kissing their boss was a good idea. Geoff had two people invested in his romantic life already, he didn’t need a third, let alone an emotionally-stunted idiot.

“You’re getting spacey on me again, Haywood.” She slapped him on the leg, none too gently, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna black out in the middle of this mission tonight, are you? I don’t wanna have to go in and find you.”

“Huh? No, I- I’m good! I was just going over the schematics again in my head.” He was grateful, not for the first time, that he was wearing his mask. She couldn’t see the flush on his face.

“Yeah, okay. If you get pinned down, just let them shoot you. It’ll be easier to respawn than to bother with a whole rescue mission.” She stood up from the desk and he was reminded that she was nearly as tall as him in the shoes she was wearing. It took his breath away.

“Can do. You think they’ll put me down gently if I ask real nice?” He didn’t want to respawn - he’d have to go back to the crime scene to retrieve his mask and jacket, and he hated doing that. One night he’d had to try three times because he was too impatient to wait til the gunfire died down.

“I know I wouldn’t.” She grinned at him, reaching up and putting a hand on his chest. It was… distinctly intimate, made his heart stop dead. She was so close to him all of a sudden, and he could smell her again, and that thought made him feel intensely creepy and-

“You’re a little too intimidating to go softly, Haywood.” Her hand slid higher, patted him on the stubbly cheek before she took a lazy step backwards, put a little more room between them. “Gotta put big, nasty fuckers like you down with extreme prejudice, right?”

“I-” He couldn’t say anything, and he was trying really hard not to look down at her tits, and also not to meet her eyes, not to see something that he wouldn’t know how to handle - be it cruel amusement or something else, attraction or arousal or---

She held his face in her hand for a moment, her brows furrowed, like she was thinking. Considering something, maybe.

“You’re a mess, aren’t you?” She said, softly. It was a tone of voice he’d been trying his best to avoid, one he’d heard before, one that was too intimate for him to even begin to handle.

He pulled away from her, his legs feeling like they were full of drying cement. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to do what he’d done with Geoff, take a chance, make that leap…

But he was a coward.

He turned away, pushing his way through the nearest exit door. He realized it wasn’t the correct, disarmed exit door about the exact moment that the security alarm started blaring.

God damn it, Ryan. You just had to run away from your problems again, didn’t you?

“Smooth move, jackass.” She snorted, already unholstering the gun on her hip. “You really wanted to shoot some security guards, huh?” She sounded annoyed, and really, she had every right to be annoyed. He’d done a series of stupid things within the span of like, five minutes. That had to be a record of some kind.

\---

The gun fight was not a particularly spectacular one. The air base was heavily guarded, but the Fakes had paid off at least 10% of those guards, which meant their escape was at least slightly aided. Jack had stuffed her computer and notebook into her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder and rushing Ryan out the door.

All in all, she was damn good at get-aways. She’s positioned her car - a nice, modest little Banshee - just outside the building they were in, and once they were inside the vehicle they were as good as home-free.

Ryan sank down into the passenger seat, his heart hammering but not because of the hail of gunfire behind them. He wished he could sink down through the leather. Briefly considered letting himself be shot just so he could respawn out of this increasingly awkward situation.

But Jack didn’t seem awkward. Hell, she barely seemed concerned, even when a bullet dinged right through the driver’s side window and exited through the windshield, narrowly missing the side of her face. She just whooped, screaming nonsense as she floored the accelerator and slammed the whole vehicle through the closest fence.

He found himself transfixed by her - watching her white-knuckle the steering wheel, her face a mix of determination and raw, manic thrill. Sometimes, off heists, Jack seemed composed. Like she was the most well put-together member of the Fakes.

Situations like this one did a lot to dispel that illusion.

She didn’t speak again until they were finally down to one star on their radar, wheeling the very, very battered vehicle into a side alley and cutting the engine. Ryan’s ears were ringing, the sudden quiet of the night somehow feeling louder than the grit and chaos of a police chase.

“What the fuck was that all about?” She turned to him, her grin replaced by furrowed brows, a lock of sweaty red hair plastered to her forehead.

He didn’t have an answer, and he’d kind of hoped she wouldn’t ask.

“Uh.” He managed, clearing his throat. How was he supposed to explain that he’d jeopardized a mission because he couldn’t keep his mind off the feeling of her skin under his hands?

“C’mon, Haywood. The whole fumbling for your words thing is cute when it isn’t about to get me shot.” She pressed, leaning across the seats and putting a hand on his thigh. He flinched.

“I don’t… Have an excuse.” He managed after a long moment, his heart hammering in his ears.

She looked at him for a while, eyes scanning across his mask, down his shoulders, noting the way he had his hands in his lap like a nervous schoolboy.

“Is this about you kissin’ Geoff?” She asked, finally, and the words rattled around the inside of Ryan’s skull like shrapnel. It wasn’t an accusation - he almost wished it was - it was just… just a question. One that she had the gall to deliver with concern.

He hated her, for a moment. Hated that she always seemed to care about him, about how he was feeling. Geoff did the same shit, and Gavin, and Michael and-

Why did everyone feel so entitled to his inner thoughts? Why did they think they deserved to know him?

“Yes.” He said, his voice thick.

“Alright.” She nodded, reaching up to run a hand back through her hair. “So, what’s the issue?”

That was the question, right? What was the issue? What specific issue had made him act like a complete idiot a few moments ago?

It was hard to pick just one.

He groaned, tipped his face forward and caught his mask in his palms, grinding the inside against the bridge of his nose. “Where do I start?”

“I don’t know, buddy. Start where you wanna start.” She leaned back against her seat, casual as ever. It was so hard to stay annoyed with her when she was like this - all obliging and playing therapist. He preferred when they were arguing. That was easier.

“I kissed Geoff.”

“Yes.” She nodded, gently coaxing him to continue like she was talking to a particularly stressed out child. Ryan felt shame curl tense and heavy in his gut. Pathetic.

“I… Kissed Geoff because I’ve. Been wanting to.” That was a start. An admission of guilt, although not quite the full story. Not the entire picture of how he was a slave to his impulses, how he was so much weaker and softer than he ever let on.

“Well, that’s great.” She gave him a half-smile, dripping with pity. “But I don’t think that ‘I kissed Geoff’ works as an explanation for why kissing Geoff made you lose your mind.”

Okay. That was fair, actually. He was running in circles. His chest felt tight.

But he didn’t want to be a coward. He wanted to lay his cards on the table, once and for all. If it ended his career? So be it.

He drew a long, heavy inhale through his nose, tipping his masked head backwards. Fuck. Just spit it out, Haywood.

“I want to kiss all-- all of… you. I want to kiss every single one of my fucking coworkers like I’m in- in highschool and I can’t stop getting crushes on all the pretty girls.” He faltered, his face so red it was hot under the mask. He was sweating. “...And boys.” He followed up, like that made him sound any less ridiculous.

Now here was the part where Jack would laugh at him. She’d tilt her head and laugh and laugh and laugh until she was pulling a gun and pressing it to his forehead, putting him down for good. She’d make the call, tell Gavin to delete his file from the respawn machine, and it’d be over. He’d proved himself too emotional, too impulsive to be a Fake. Too impulsive to be anything.

“Okay?” She asked, not actually laughing at all. There was the smallest smile on her lips, her eyes narrowed like she was assessing him for details, trying to pry more out of him. “You look nervous, Haywood. You think I’m gonna yell at you or something?”

“...I… don’t know.” He sounded more fragile than he would’ve liked. “I don’t- I realize this isn’t any way to conduct myself in a criminal organization. I’ve been- I’ve been priding myself on my ability to stay calm and detached, but lately it just feels like… Like everything’s closing in around me. Like I’ve run myself up a wall trying to keep from getting attached to people and now I’m suddenly inundated with this… this almost desperation and I don’t know how to-”

Once he started rambling it was hard to get him to stop. The words spilled out of him, reckless and uneven, and he wasn’t so sure he was making a lot of sense. Jack let him speak for a good long while, but eventually she reached forward, caught him by the back of the neck and tugged his mask off over his head.

He stared at her with wide blue eyes, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face a mess of smeared eye makeup and sweat. There was a little red line across his nose where the hard plastic had been resting for hours.

He went silent as she stared at him, her own eyes trained on his face, tracing down the busted bridge of his nose, to his mouth and-

And she kissed him.

He didn’t know how to handle the sudden warm press of lips against his own, the feeling of Jack’s hand on his shoulder, steadying herself gently. She stayed there for a long moment, just keeping their mouths pressed together, only pulling away when she felt satisfied that she’d gotten him to stop spiralling.

“There. Did that feel like the end of the world?” She asked, her cheeks a little pink. Ryan found his eyes running across her face, like he was trying to memorize every little detail - her freckles and the light scar that ran down into her upper lip. He felt like he was in a dream.

He didn’t have an answer. It kind of did feel like the end of the world. Like the end of all the careful panicky scenarios he’d made up in his head. It didn’t make sense according to his frantic panic-brain, so it kind of short circuited him for a moment.

Jack did laugh at him this time, patting him on one stubbly cheek. “I don’t think you need to worry so much. Have you not noticed that everyone else in the crew spends half their time making out with each other?”

“...Yes, but I-”

“But you what? Didn’t feel included? If we excluded you, I’m sure I’d be happy to fix-”

“I didn’t want to intrude!” He started, gloved hands coming up like he was being held at gunpoint. “I saw what you and Geoff have and it made me feel… it made me feel like I didn’t belong in it. Like there was a dynamic I’d never understand happening and to put myself between you two would be…”

“Aw, buddy, c’mon. You gotta chill out.” She patted his face, leaned in and kissed him again - just a little peck. “You’re overthinking all of this shit.”

“...But we’re criminals.” His final protest was weaker than all the others, like Jack was forcibly dismantling all the things that kept him up at night. The worst part was realizing just how irrational and pathetic it all sounded out loud.

“Yeah? And?” She snorted, her eyes closing. “You saying criminals can’t have sex? You’ve been missing out.”

“It isn’t just sex, though.”

“Nah. It isn’t. But does that mean we don’t get to like, fall in love, either? That’s kind of bullshit, isn’t it?”

He didn’t know if it was bullshit. It wasn’t that he didn’t think they deserved love, it was that he didn’t think he deserved it. Maybe that was the crux, right? The fact that he got frustrated at people for trying to know him, for trying to peek beneath the veneer. Because he didn’t deserve love and they didn’t deserve to see him like that - weak and writhing and dopey-eyed.

He didn’t know how to answer her. He just kind of wanted to go home and go to sleep. Potentially for the next full week.

“Alright.” She said, after a few long minutes of silence passed between them. She looked a little frustrated, but not outright angry. It was rare when Jack would let Ryan back out of an argument.

He sat back in his seat and watched the city turn into neon smears as she drove them through the backstreets of Los Santos. He wondered if he’d ever be able to get over himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear he's getting somewhere, but it's so fun to write him constantly worrying lol 
> 
> This chapter took a little longer because I wasn't crazy about it, so I'll probably have the next one up pretty soon.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments and the support, it means a lot!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin watches Ryan work. Ryan likes being watched, it turns out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some graphic depictions of torture, as well as a casual disregard for human life. This whole fic is 18+ but I'd like to remind people of that right now! The next chapter is probably going to be porn. Buckle up, boys.

The Vagabond had grown increasingly notorious in Los Santos – rumors about him echoing down every street, against the walls of every crummy little downtown house and tinkling against the chandeliers in every drug lords mansion.

Most of the rumors took a decidedly Supernatural angle - the skull mask was hiding the scarred face of a undead man, or that the Vagabond had never been a man at all - he was just death itself come to life and given a sick motorcycle jacket.

He quite liked all that – it was flattering, and he had a flair for the dramatic, if he was being honest. It was also kind of exciting knowing he’d been fully drawn into the Fakes notorious reputation. They were quickly climbing ranks as a gang and, almost more importantly, an unstoppable force of chaos. If you caught yourself out on the street when they drove by, it would be in your best interest to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.

He wondered how his reputation would shift if people saw what he did to his victims while he was working them over. Wondered if it would affect the rumors that started back up every time Geoff returned a torture victim to their respective gang’s headquarters. Sure, there was a lot to be learned about his process from just looking at their corpses, or interviewing the catatonic (but alive!) ones, but… Well, witnessing the process would’ve only increased how unsettling it was, right? Maybe he’d make the FBI most wanted list. Maybe his mug shot would just be him in full Vagabond regalia. That would be _rich. _

On the subject of hostages, this one had been a tough little nut to crack. Most people saw his mask and either fell to their knees and begged for him to let them go. This guy, though. He was determined to keep his mouth shut. It was a matter of pride, probably. Foolish, misplaced pride and loyalty to his “family.” It was admirable, if not incredibly stupid. 

He never felt bad for his victims, although perhaps he should have. If he felt bad for corpses he never would’ve gotten into this line of business in the first place, right?

He was getting sidetracked. The victim in front of him was still reclining smugly in his metal chair, arms tied tight behind him. Ryan hadn’t touched him yet, aside from hitting him hard enough to incapacitate him earlier. He liked to let them ruminate on it. See if they’d do the work for him, psyche themselves out.

Like he’d said, though, this guy was playing hard to get. He was going to have to get hands-on, but, that was definitely not a problem.

“Ryaaaaan!”

The chipper British voice in his ear startled him so badly that he actually jumped – just a little. The hostage in front of him shifted, raised an eyebrow, but Ryan passed off the surprised movement by turning to his rolling tray of torture devices. Yes. Intimidating. Maintain that.

He did not respond – Gavin wasn’t supposed to bother him while he was working, so if he wanted to chatter into his com device he’d have to do it without getting any feedback.

“Oh, what’cha got there, Mr. Vagabond? That the bloke from earlier? I heard he don’t eat nothin’ but sirloin steaks for every meal. Micoo says he’s so ripped he could flip over a firetruck.”

Ryan assessed the man in front of him. Certainly tough looking – lean muscle and the tense neck veins of a man who was more frustrated by his inability to move than he was about anything else. This was a man who preferred action over words. Well, Ryan would just have to change that.

His eyes flickered up to the little blinking security camera in the corner. Geoff had called that his “insurance cam.” It was there to make sure Ryan didn’t get soft and let someone go. Nobody was really monitoring it, or so he’d heard last time Geoff had called him into a meeting and asked, simply, “Why are you so fucked up?”

He supposed his boss had learned that he wasn’t going to get soft.

“I just wanted to talk to ya.” Gavin continued. He was sitting in Geoff’s downstairs, the room adjacent to the respawn machine, propped up in front of a load of security camera feeds. Really, if Ryan had thought about it, it would make perfect sense for Gavin to be spying on him like this. He had a penchant for both camera-work and being incredibly nosy.

He’d been watching Ryan a lot lately, actually. Observing him when they went on heists, sticking close to him wherever they went together, spending all his idle time peeping at him through whatever camera was nearby and easily hackable.

He was just curious about him. He’d been curious about him ever since the start, and the more he got to know the Vagabond the more he wanted to see. The idea to watch him in his creepy little torture warehouse was a stroke of genius! He’d get to see him at his most unhinged, and maybe that would lend Gavin a bit more of Ryan’s personality. Maybe he’d be able to piece together why he found him so fascinating in the first place.

Ryan did not answer him, once again. He didn’t usually speak during interrogations – but, of course, he couldn’t explain that to Gavin right now, could he?

Silence was good. It made other people want to speak, trying to fill up the terrible void of uncertainty. Made it easier to get the information he needed, even if they wound up stuttering it out in a panicked monologue.

“You just gonna ominous him to death, Haywood?” Gavin tucked his feet up under himself, leaning forward to try to get a better view of the Vagabond through the grainy piece of shite camera Geoff had outfitted the warehouse with. He’d need to get that upgraded. “Is that a hammer there? Do that one.” Okay, so maybe he was supposed to be observing, not directing, but damnit he liked to direct! And oh, how lovely would Ryan look in one of his films? Perhaps with less bloodshed, but…

He was drawn out of that train of thought when the bloody bastard actually _did it. _He watched the shiny tool glitter in the dull fluorescents and felt his heart leap in his chest. Oh, was he listening to him now? That was just top. “What do you usually use that for, luv? Bashing skulls in? I suppose you could just off him, but that’d defeat the purpose a bit, yeh? Maybe you could knock his knees in! Or his fingers…”

Gavin wasn’t inclined to violence in person. He didn’t like the mess, or the _squish _so many things made.

That’s what he said, anyway, although pretty much anyone who worked with him knew that was as much a bald-faced lie as “I slit my parents before I left England!”

Gavin was a man of impulse, and those impulses led to him being quite quick on his feet in a fight. That also led to him gouging people’s eyes out on simple heist missions. His defense was usually something like, “Well he spooked me!” or “What was I supposed to do! You bastards left me alone!” or, on rare occasions when he walked away dripping with gore, a simple, “I got bored.”

It seemed like violence from a distance was a whole different beast, though. He found himself cursing once again that Geoff’s shitty little camera was at such a terrible angle, wished he would’ve gone in and set up a tripod or two. Maybe then he could be producing a decent film.

“Can you scoot over to the left a bit, lovely Ryan?”

Ryan faltered, swallowed down a sudden, frantic laugh. Jesus Christ. He supposed Gavin needed a better look at all those busted knuckles. Maybe he wanted to be sure Ryan was doing what he’d told him.

He obliged. He wasn’t sure why, but he did. It was so easy to listen to Gavin, and his motives were so intriguing… he just couldn’t fucking help himself.

Gavin kept talking, egged on by the fact that Ryan was being so _good _for him. He really hadn’t expected that! His initial goal was just to be nosy, and maybe annoy the bloke a bit. But this was exciting!

And Ryan kept listening. Anything Gavin wanted – any little sliver of overexcited brutality, any little _dare _of violence Gavin pushed him towards, he obliged.

He might’ve been showing off a bit. When Gavin said, “Can you hit a bloke so hard his ribs break?” Ryan was already stepping back, adjusting his position. Everything he did was done with a reverent kind of bravado. He was _preening. _He felt Gavin’s gaze on the back of his neck, hot and heavy as if he was in the room with him.

Pose. Pull. Impact. Crack. The sound of retching and cursing and coughing followed the motion, the feeling of adrenaline swelling up in his chest coming in synch with it. He had to fight the urge to look up at the camera, to ask if that was good, to see if he’d done a good job for him-

But Gavin was no fool. He caught onto what Ryan wanted, what he needed, and his encouragement came in the form of excitable little squeals every time. “Oh! I heard the crack, Ryan, that was bloody top! Hit him again. Harder.”

And he did. God, he did. Anything Gavin said, he went for it, sharp and eager as ever, his breath coming hard. He was bouncing on his heels, every single cell in his body thrumming hot with power, with mad glee at the fact that he was being encouraged to show off. Maybe he should’ve tried for an audience sooner. Maybe the theatrics were just what he fucking needed.

By the time he was finished he was panting, coated in a slick spatter of gore. The corpse in front of him had been rendered unrecognizable, his limp hair still held tight in Ryan’s fist, his blade still pressed taut to the slit he’d carved in his throat. Deep enough he could see the glint of bone.

Okay, maybe they’d both gotten… a bit carried away. Maybe Ryan had forgotten that he was supposed to be getting information, not just showing off. Oh well.

Ryan let out a brief, sharp laugh – unhinged as could be, matching the chortling squeaks Gavin was making on the other side of the line. “Jesus Christ.” He said, shaking his head and letting both the knife and the dead man’s head drop from his tight grasp. He reached up, turned and waved into the camera. “Is this why you’ve been stalking me? Because you’re a little gore hound?”

“No!” Gavin shouted, bouncing up and down in his seat. “I’m not- What’s a gore hound? Never mind. I’m just surprised you’re so easy t’boss around, luv.”

“Well, you bossed me out of getting any answers.” He replied, wiping his hands on a stained towel on his tool tray. God, he was really gonna have to hose this whole room down, wasn’t he?

“Ehhh, whatever! Who cares! It was fun, wasn’t it?” And maybe Gavin sounded a little too excited, maybe he sounded all keyed up, his voice low and eager, still pushing, still wanting more. Ryan chuckled to himself. There wasn’t enough victim left for Gavin to continue his snuff film.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t fun.” He paced closer to the security camera, looking up into it with the cool, dead eyes of his mask. Gavin shivered. “Does everyone else know about your little voyeurism fetish?”

There was a soft little pause, Gavin tapping his fingertips against his mouth. “I dunno if it’s a fetish… I’m just fascinated, yeh? You’re such a fucked up bastard, it’s fun to see how far you’ll go!”

“And how far I can get a knife into someone’s throat.”

“And that!”

There was another long pause, Ryan settled in this lonely, filthy warehouse. He kept his head inclined to the camera, just watching back. Waiting patiently for more orders, his hands by his sides. Gavin could see the blood shining on his jacket, wet and dark through the camera static.

“Ryan…”

“Yes, Gavin?”

“Would you…” He paused, chewed it over for a moment. “Would you like to…hang out with me?”

“Right now, Gavin?” Ryan’s voice was soft and low, and Gavin could just _hear _the smile there. Toothy and hungry. He knew Ryan was bloody dangerous like this, all keyed up, probably hard from murdering this bloke. He knew anything could happen.

But well… He liked anything when Ryan was around, didn’t he? The bloke was so bleeding interesting – hell, the last time they’d fooled around had been prefaced with a murder. Why not repeat the story?

“Yeh. Don’t clean up, I’ll be down in a bit.” Gavin hopped up from his seat, clumsily untangling the headset from himself. He’d really twisted the cord up while he was fidgeting. He held the mic against his mouth. “Just wait for me.”

And then he was gone, on his way out to his car, ignoring his erection, ignoring the racing of his heart, ignoring how sweaty his palms were.

Ryan waited. What choice did he have? Gavin managed to be awfully convincing without ever once trying, without ever once explaining his thoughts. Ryan wondered if that was some kind of super power. Wondered if that was how he’d gotten hired here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one where they finally fucking talk! The next one is where they finally fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some more detailed discussion of Ghosts Don't Talk in this one, but I think most of the implications are clear. TW for discussion of potential non-consensual situations, although nothing explicit. 
> 
> As an additional reminder, this fic is not for anyone below the age of 18! Thank you!

Ryan had figured Gavin wanted to come poke around the aftermath, maybe get some macro shots of the gore. Probably for like, some weird blog he must have or something. He seemed like the type to have a weird photo blog, with his penchant for recording everything.

What he hadn’t expected was the Brit to come shoving the warehouse door open wearing a pair of shorts and a _very _gaudy jacket, smiling at him in a way that was… decidedly mischievous. Ryan didn’t know that mischievous was good. It made his heart stutter, though.

“You got here fast.”

“Well, there’s hardly any traffic this late.” That was a lie. There was always traffic. Gavin must’ve just ignored it. Motorcycle, maybe, if the sound had been anything to go off of.

“Uh. Alright.” Ryan nodded tersely. It was, actually, really weird to be having a conversation right now. Usually his post-torture routine was to bag everything, hose the bitch down, and go home and fall asleep as fast as possible. _Usually _with a shower somewhere in between. It was a solitary ritual, one conducted in silence.

Gavin being here meant nothing would be conducted in silence. He moved right past the corpse in the middle of the room, pointedly avoiding looking at the gore, and focused his gaze up at Ryan. “We should talk, I think.”

Okay, that _really _wasn’t what he’d expected. Not in the least.

“Uh…” He repeated, clearing his throat. He didn’t think he needed to talk to Gavin. He didn’t think anything between them warranted addressing in the least.

Gavin placed a hand on the front of Ryan’s leather jacket, letting his thumb graze over the right panel, sliding across the teeth of the open zipper. “I suppose that… I might owe you an apology.” He sounded thoughtful, but not entirely genuine. Like he’d figured out the reason something wasn’t working and he was now running a bug-fix.

Ryan didn’t think he spited Gavin for that, though. He could understand it – understand his “use method A to fix problem B” kind of detachment here, but he really… didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t feel the need to discuss anything that had gone on between them. Water under the bridge.

“Gavin, we really don’t need to discuss anything.” His voice was muffled by the mask, his breathing still heavy from a few moments before.

Gavin snorted, his eyes narrowing. “Oh yeh? Well, I’m gonna talk at you, then, and you’re going to listen.”

And there it was – the hook, the knowledge that there’d be no escape from this discomfort until Gavin had smoothed out all the creases between them. _That _was frustrating, but he kept his mouth shut. Even if he killed him and ran away, he’d just respawn and keep talking, except crankier then.

“Fine.”

“Lovely!” He grinned, his hand lingering on Ryan’s chest. He was covered in blood – up close, Gavin could see how slick his jacket was, could see the little tiny bits of viscera clinging to him, especially his gloves.

It made him nauseous, but not enough to really bother him. He’d always had a bit of a weak stomach, to be fair, and this line of work had taught him how to ignore it pretty well. “Alright, I’m sorry I made you suck my nob. Wasn’t very polite of me.”

Ryan blinked down at him for a long moment before letting out a startled little laugh. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘What?’ I said I’m bloody sorry about it! Geoffrey says that it’s a sleazy thing to do.” He sounded offended, like he was confused why Ryan wasn’t accepting his apology. He was coming from the heart, after all.

“I-“ Ryan snorted, reaching up to fully remove his mask, easing it back across his head and letting it drop to the floor. He was flushed pink and sweaty, eye makeup smeared down the apples of his cheeks and on the bridge of his nose. “Gavin, I didn’t _not _want to suck you off… That wasn’t like-“ He gestured helplessly. “If I didn’t want to blow you I would’ve just killed you again!”

He didn’t want to talk about this, because he didn’t want to consult how he’d been feeling. He didn’t want to think about how he’d been both parts suicidal and manic at the time, how Gavin showing up might’ve been a hallucination if not for the text messages on his phone, how the feeling of someone else’s skin against his own had been the most intimacy he’d had in nearly a year.

He really, really didn’t want to think about how fascinated he’d been by the idea of having sex with someone he’d just murdered. Especially not when that idea led into the idea that he wanted to get _topped _by someone he’d just murdered.

He didn’t get topped! He was the Vagabond! He didn’t have time for shit like that, and if he did, he would surely be the dominant party. It stood to reason within his image, didn’t it?

Well, alright. Even he didn’t believe that part.

Gavin watched Ryan think, and he seemed caught up in his own train of thought, puzzling out whatever new piece of information Ryan had given him. “Well… If you wanted to blow me, then why’re you so weird now?”

“That’s kind of a loaded question.”

“I mean- Why are you so weird about, like, shaggin’ people. You walk around all bloody day like you’ve got a stick up your arse, blushing like a damn teenager. What’s your problem, luv? Why don’t you just buckle down and, I dunno. Make out with someone or sommat!”

This was probably a conversation Gavin had been trying to have with him before, actually. One he would’ve launched into if Michael hadn’t been present during Ryan’s worst most-recent meltdown.

To be fair, Ryan was glad he was doing it now instead of then. He would’ve crumbled at that point, more than likely.

He laughed again, not sure what other reaction he wanted to have. It all just felt so absurd when it was laid out in front of him like that. Why _was _he being so strange? Why was he tying himself in knots about intimacy when it was all around him?

He’d gone over these questions a lot, and that made him doubly glad that Gavin had asked him now.

“I don’t… Think it’s your fault, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Gavin furrowed his brows. “Well, it must be a bit, yeh? You were willing to blow me as soon as you met me, but then I left you alone, and – OH SHITE!” His outburst made Ryan jump, Gavin’s fingers clenching around the sticky leather in front of him. “Is this all cuz I left ya with blue balls, luv? Did I- Did I ruin your _trust _or sommat?” He sounded like a man who had just solved a pesky math problem.

Ryan frowned. Okay, maybe he _hadn’t _figured everything out on his own. Maybe Gavin was… a little right. It felt pathetic to admit that, though. It felt like admitting that his feelings were that fragile, that the perceived rejection of a then-stranger had been enough to turn him off of opening up altogether.

But… Maybe that was it, right? Maybe Gavin’s little misstep had happened at the worst possible time – when he was already on a ledge, already at the end of his rope when it came to secluding himself. Maybe his walking out the door had been the catalyst that sent Ryan scuttling back into the dark, cold safety of not allowing himself to be known.

“Don’t say it like that.” Ryan replied, shaking his head. “I’m not, like, an abused dog or something.”

“Well- Did I abuse you? Was that abuse?” He wasn’t being sarcastic – he sounded genuinely concerned for a moment. It was a weird line for Gavin to draw, but the tone of his voice made Ryan pause and reconsider. Maybe this wasn’t all just an effort for him to fix a problem. Maybe he sort-of cared a little.

“Uh. No, Gavin, I don’t think so. That’s what I’m saying.” He drew a deep inhale, reaching up to scratch his beard. He left himself streaked with red. “I just think… I think maybe you did all that at the worst time, maybe. Does that make sense?”

Gavin blinked at him. “Oh. You mean like I just walked in on a problem and made it _worse, _yeh?” He wanted to absolve himself of _some _guilt, after all. He didn’t like feeling guilty! He wasn’t supposed to care!

“…Yeah, yeah. You could say that.” He shifted in place, taking note of how close Gavin was to him. He wondered if this was… something. If there was an opportunity for change. His hand came up again, curling around Gavin’s fuzzy wrist, leaving him cuffed in sticky gore.

Before Ryan got the chance to move further, Gavin was once-more taking the reigns, leaning forward and cupping the back of his neck. “Suppose that means I owe you something to make up for that, don’t I?” This was an easy solution! A fix to the thing he’d broken.

“Uh…” Ryan swallowed, his face heating up again. The room they were in stank of blood and cold metal, but if he was being honest, he didn’t find it that off-putting. He’d gotten hard while he killed the guy, so he was already pretty fucking immersed in what was going on. “Don’t… Don’t do this like you owe me something, Gavin. I don’t want to do anything that has terms of service attached.”

Gavin’s expression darkened briefly, his eyes growing a bit distant, his mouth pressed into a tight line. When he spoke, his voice was more serious than Ryan had ever heard it. “I don’t do things _for _blokes anymore, Ryan. I’m doing this because I want to. If I didn’t, you’d know.”

Ryan did not… understand what that was about, but he imagined that every member of the Fakes had their own underlying issues. He didn’t think Gavin wanted his poked at right this moment.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” And with that, he dipped his head forward, caught Gavin by the back of his own, and pressed their lips together. It was easier than it had been with Geoff – smoother, made his heart feel less tense. This was… Good. This was what he should’ve done earlier, really. Everything seemed to circle back around to Gavin in the end.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan finally gets some for the first time in like, two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content! It also contains minor(?) edging, allusions to gore and fetishism of violence, etcetera. Proceed with caution and please do not read this chapter (or the rest of this fic) if you are under the age of 18. None of the actual sex involves any violence or gore for the record, but obviously given the context, it is mentioned briefly in the lead-up.
> 
> Please let me know if I need to add any tags or warnings, and enjoy!

Gavin hadn’t expected Ryan to kiss him first, but it was a very pleasant surprise. Despite the fact that he could feel how gross his fingers were against the back of his neck, he leaned into the gesture, wrapped both arms around the Vagabond’s shoulders and kissed him back.

It didn’t last long, despite Gavin’s desires, although when Ryan pulled away he looked as flushed and turned on as he’d ever seen him.

Ryan wanted to ask if this was okay, wanted to scramble, to excuse himself – the incessant little worm of anxiety was back, constantly reminding him that he was doing something wrong. That he was being selfish and perverse.

He shoved it down summarily, grabbing Gavin by the front of his ugly gold jacket and tugging him close. “Do you want to do this here?” He asked, his voice low. He was being bolder than before, almost intentionally-so. He hoped it didn’t come across like he was overcompensating.

Gavin was panting softly, his eyes glittering with dark excitement. Oh, this was going _so _much better than he’d expected. His worst-case outcome for this scenario was that Ryan would be angry with him for being a bother and he’d slit him as soon as he showed up.

With that worry assuaged, though, he felt himself sinking into a lazy kind of confidence – the familiar feeling of having the world turn itself over just for him. Everything always seemed to work out when you were Gavin Free.

In that moment, with Ryan’s hands firm on his jacket, his blue eyes watery and desperate and full of that bleary, aroused, just-killed-someone haze, he kind of considered staying where they were. To hell with the corpse and the stink of blood and the drip, drip, drip-

No, actually. He definitely wanted to leave. It felt unsettling to do something sexual in this room, and also, the smell and the constant looming reminder of fresh death was starting to make him woozy. By now he’d usually vacated a crime scene. He didn’t stick around to ruminate in his sins.

“Is there another room in here or sommat?” He said, making no move to investigate. He couldn’t bring himself to break away from this warm, sticky embrace.

“Yeah.” Ryan nodded, although he didn’t move to lead them elsewhere. He was too caught up in the moment, in the weight of Gavin’s hands on his shoulders, tugging at warm leather. He was a handsy dude – always mapping things out with his fingers. He watched him as his digits tip-tapped down his chest, danced lower until he was dragging the pads of his fingers across Ryan’s damp t-shirt, tracing the slight curve of his belly.

A shiver ran up his spine and he swallowed softly. “Suppose I could lose the dad-gut, huh?” He asked sheepishly. He’d forgotten the conversation they were having already.

Gavin startled, like he’d been caught up in his thoughts as he touched Ryan through his clothes. “Wot? Your stomach’s lovely, Ryan. It’s just a bit soft.” He wiggled his fingers under the hem of his shirt, tugged it up so he could admire the trail of hair leading down to his beltline. “A bit dad-bod, but that’s sexy, innit?”

“Uhh… Is it?” He didn’t know, actually. He figured he could get rid of his little gut if he laid off a _few _Diet Cokes, but that just wasn’t happening. He was still strong enough to kill people, so what did it really matter?

“Sure it is! People are bloody trippin’ over themselves for it.” With that he finally released his shirt, nudging Ryan towards the only door in the room aside from the entrance. “C’mon, now. Let’s get out of here, it’s bloody morbid.”

“Morbid, right.” Ryan refused to note the irony of that statement – didn’t bother arguing that Gavin had been the director of this particularly gruesome event. He was too horny for arguments about ethics. Instead, he caught him by the wrist, turning on his heel and dragging him out through the only other door in the room. His footsteps were sure and urgent – he was a man on a mission, after all.

Gavin trailed along after him, sort of bounce-rocking on his heels, like Ryan was leading him into a party. Bit of a party for two, if he really thought about it.

The moment the metal door slammed shut behind them, Gavin was flush against Ryan’s chest again, shoving him up against one of the sound-proofed grey walls. He was surprisingly strong for someone so lanky, and the Vagabond couldn’t hide the groan that realization drew from his lips.

He didn’t get the chance to muse over Gavin’s other hidden talents, though, because almost instantly his hands were back on him, this time venturing lower, groping at his cock through his jeans. Gavin kept his eyes glued to Ryan’s face, staring at him like a predator trying to intimidate his prey.

“Oh-“ Ryan startled, stiffening against the wall, his mouth hanging open. His eyelashes fluttered, hands doing a kind of fluttery grasp at the concrete behind him. He had not exactly expected to react like that, but he also wasn’t all that surprised. It had been years, although that fact didn’t lessen his embarassment.

He was already flushed as red as a tomato, from the tips of his ears down to his chest.

Gavin giggled at him, reedy and eager, like every reaction he earned was a fresh new piece of the puzzle he’d solved. His fingers traced over the outline of Ryan’s slowly stiffening cock, so gentle. “Hmm. Seems like you and I were on the same train of thought while we spoke, weren’t we?”

“Wh-What do you mean?” Ryan swallowed, the fight very suddenly drawn from him. Either Gavin was some kind of magician whose specialty was making people act like cowed little submissives, or Ryan needed to have a sit-down and ponder over his fetishes. Probably the latter, although he wished it was more the former. Then he couldn’t blame himself for being so easy.

“Well, I dunno for _sure…” _He drawled, rubbing light little circles against where the head of Ryan’s cock was resting, teasing him until he felt him shudder and choke on a groan. “But it seemed like you were pretty into that lil interrogation scene, yeh?” He swallowed, leaned in close so he was pressed flush with Ryan’s body. “You’re a bit of a pervert, aren’t you, Vagabond?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re _implying, _Gavin…” He very much knew what he was implying, his heart hammering in his chest. He had been hard the moment Gavin spoke up on his comm device, and by now his jeans were feeling oppressively tight.

“Oh, you do, though.” Gavin grinned at him, toothy and cruel, and pressed his palm against his erection, stroked it nice and slow. “Does hurting people get you hard, lovely Ryan? Does it make you horny? Or was that cuz I was here bossing you around?”

Oh god. Oh_ god._

To be fair, he actually didn’t know. He’d gotten off on violence in the past – it was sort of the reason he’d found himself so drawn to it. He was a bad person. He liked hurting people. He’d liked hurting Gavin, too, right? Had intended on slinking to bed and jerking off to the thought of smashing his head in-

But the way he felt when Gavin was _helping him? _When Gavin was the one holding the reigns, using him as a big, blunt tool? That had been different. That had been breathtakingly arousing.

He spared a thought for how unfortunate it was that this was just going to further fuel Gavin’s ego – something the other man _surely _didn’t need – but he supposed it was worth it. He couldn’t bring himself to answer out loud, but the way he swallowed and shivered implicated him just fine. He knew he was caught.

Gavin let out a smarmy little chuckle, cooing at him. He squeezed his cock so hard it made Ryan moan out loud, finally. “Oh, that’s lovely. Don’t worry. I know you’re hard for _me._ I know I’m what’s got you all hot ‘n bothered. It’s not unusual!”

Those words made him shudder, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t think embarrassment would feel_ good_, didn’t think being called out in such blunt terms would make him feel like he was about to cum in his pants.

Alright, maybe he was a good clip more submissive than he’d given himself credit for. Maybe.

“I don’t- I don’t think I’m _only_ capable of getting hard for men who wear gold silk jackets.” He replied, although his voice was weak. Not his best comeback, but to be fair, there was little blood in his brain to work with.

“Oh, come off it. This jacket cost more than your whole Hot Topic wardrobe.” Gavin grinned again, exposed his gumline in what was really more of a snarl - and then his hand was off Ryan’s dick and he was fumbling open his belt instead. “You don’t care about that, though, do ya? You’re not out here killin’ blokes for money for nice clothes. You’re doing it cuz you’re a sick bastard.”

“Y-Yeah…”

Ryan’s reply startled both of them – it was an admission, one that hung heavy in the room, made his chest feel tight. It was mortifying.

Gavin couldn’t have been happier. He let out a pleased little squeal, allowing Ryan’s belt to fall open with a loud jingle. “Lookit you! So bloody easy. I remember that from before.” He lowered his head, his pupils swollen and dark, absolutely nothing in his eyes. Gavin’s ability to slide into complete unreadability was deeply unsettling – probably moreso than any of his Crewmates. There was something so sublimely terrifying about watching the Golden Boy go from giddy and squealing to blank-eyed and icy.

It made Ryan’s dick twitch.

He didn’t know what to say now – he’d made a total misstep, given Gavin enough ammunition to keep him pinned down for the rest of his life. The surge of desperate panic it brought was quelled only by the fact that, oh –

There were warm, barely-calloused hands on his sensitive skin, and the whole world went white for a second. He made a sound that he barely registered hearing, one that must’ve been embarrassing enough that it made Gavin blush a little.

“Impressive!” Gavin remarked, giving the swollen, hot flesh a nice hefty squeeze. Ryan’s kneecaps buckled and he was left pressing his full weight against the concrete behind his head, his mouth and eyes gaping like he was a suffocating fish.

God, it had _really _been too long.

Gavin’s fingers remained on his skin – just holding his cock, measuring the weight of it, feeling it out. It was unbearable. All he wanted was for him to move. All he wanted in that moment was to just _cum as soon as possible. _His brain felt like mush.

When he tried to move, tried to clumsily hump into the loose ring of Gavin’s fist, he was met with a soft little scolding. Gavin pressed his other hand to Ryan’s lower stomach, shaking his head. “No, no. Stay still or I won’t keep on touchin’ ya.” His words were almost sweet, as if he didn’t want to reprimand him.

Ryan whined, frustrated, and furrowed his brows at the other man. “Gavin, please- This is- I just-“ He spluttered, letting his head tip back against the wall. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.

“I know, luv. I know exactly what you want.”

And then Gavin was on his knees in front of him, that cool, predatory gaze still locked onto Ryan’s face. He felt a chill run up his spine, his toes curling in his boots. Never in his life had he expected to have Gavin Free kneeling in front of his cock, even if he had fantasized about it quite a bit.

His mouth was dry, he didn’t really know what to say, but luckily Gavin was good at filling the silence. “Now, I’m not real good at this…” He said softly, a crooked smile on his face as he finally, finally started to stroke him, his hand sliding back down the length of his shaft until he bumped into his open fly, and then forward again – painfully slow, like he was testing out how it worked. “And you’re damn lucky I’m doing it for you, in the first place. Most people don’t get the opportunity.”

Ryan _felt_ lucky. He wanted to tell Gavin just how lucky he felt, but his throat was locked up again. All he could do was reach forward, card his gloved fingers through the messy spikes of Gavin’s hair with a soft, pathetic little groan.

“Come on now,” Gavin replied, tilting his head and grinning at him. “Say thank you!”

“I- Th… Thank you. Thank you, Gavin.” He managed, his voice dry and thick. His heart flip-flopped in his chest, every action feeling heavy and thick. He was so, so turned on, and so embarrassed, and he just wanted to stuff his cock down Gavin’s throat—

He did not get to do that, though.

Gavin’s smile softened, his eyes narrowing a little, looking up at Ryan like he was just _so _pleased with him. “Good boy.” He purred, finally leaning in and running the flat of his tongue across the head of Ryan’s cock.

It drove a shiver up his spine, his head rocking back against the wall before bouncing forward again, desperate to watch the other man take him apart. He didn’t want to miss any of this.

To be fair to Gavin, he did do a damn good job of putting on a show. He traced his tongue up along the underside of Ryan’s cock, felt the way his pulse was thrumming there below the heated skin. It was nice, actually – nice to play around with, nice to really relish in the experience. And he _did _relish it – laving wet, open-mouthed kisses all along the side of his shaft, dragging his tongue beneath his frenulum. Any time he’d make Ryan react he would focus down on that action, draw it out further and further.

Ryan didn’t know if it was possible to get any fucking harder. Gavin was _teasing him_ for longer than seemed humane, his cock slowly growing hotter and more flushed as time passed, the head turned a dark purple. If he could’ve cum just from this, he would’ve, gladly. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t enough sensation – at times it was barely any at all, just the feeling of his crewmate teasing his skin, wet and soft and not-fucking-ENOUGH.

“G-Gavin, _please._” He choked out finally, his toes curled up tight in his boots, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “Please just- Just suck me off.”

The Golden Boy rocked back a bit on his haunches, holding Ryan’s cock in a feather-light grasp that only made him feel like his skin was crawling. It was actually getting uncomfortable to be touched, he was so fucking turned on. His stomach was turning.

Gavin looked up at Ryan carefully, taking him in for a long, long moment. It was like he was weighing his options, considering—and there was a brief, terrible instinct that he was about to _leave. _Ryan imagined it in his mind’s eye: Gavin getting to his feet, smiling that sickly-soft, cruel smile and saying, “Nah, sorry luv. Changed my mind!”

And then he’d leave him again – hard and wanting and confused – and Ryan would be nothing all over again. He’d realize this had all been a ruse from the start, he’d realize that the depths of Gavin’s cruelty knew no bounds—

“Relax!” Gavin piped up, his eyebrows raised. “You’re givin’ me the creeps with that thousand yard stare, lovely Ryan.” He tilted his head and his eyes were soft, although an embarrassed flush was creeping up his cheeks. “I was just having a bit of fun, that’s all. I’ll finish you up real nice.”

To be honest, Gavin knew he’d need to get Ryan right on the edge before he actually did anything serious. His gag reflex was piss-poor (bad enough he’d vomited just from brushing his teeth a few times) and while years of cocaine use had improved his tolerance a bit, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to take anything too intense without vomiting all over the other man’s cock.

That would probably ruin the mood, to be fair.

Ryan didn’t know what to say at first – didn’t know how to apologize for accusations he hadn’t made out loud – but once again, Gavin saved him. It seemed like the man did that a lot. Maybe if he thought about it, he’d realize he was only saving him from messes he’d made himself, but… Well, that didn’t need to be pondered right now.

What mattered right now was that Gavin had dipped forward, closed those perfect lips of his around the head of Ryan’s cock. He kept his teeth off his skin, let the flat of his tongue come forward to press firmly against the underside of his head, grace him with a few wet, heavy licks. He sucked at it a bit, his cheeks hollowing under the cover of his beard, his eyelashes fluttering as he let himself get settled.

Ryan dug his fingers into his own palms, pressed flat back against the wall like he was being held at gunpoint, his hips canted forward. He knew he needed to be still, knew he didn’t want to upset the balance. Whatever Gavin decided to give him was what he deserved to have.

The feeling of the younger man inching forward, making _very_ cautious motions as he tentatively eased more of Ryan’s prick into his mouth… It was torturous. Everything felt like it was moving sticky-slow, like he was trapped in warm, suffocating honey.

He never wanted to escape.

Gavin didn’t bob his head much - more of just a slow, even slide, gliding his tongue across the underside, his hand coming up to squeeze and stroke at the rest of his cock.

It was more than enough in any case – the wet heat, the constant soft, velvety feeling of his mouth on Ryan’s already overly sensitive flesh… He wasn’t going to stand much of a chance for long.

Gavin had only just started to let himself get settled in the motions, his mind wandering a little as he took in the feeling of Ryan on his tongue, the salty-skin taste of him, when he felt the other man’s hips jerk. He could tell he was trying to restrain himself, his hips stuttering in place. Even as he reached his orgasm he was being careful to respect Gavin’s boundaries.

That shouldn’t have made Gavin’s heart skip, but it did.

He pressed his hands flat to Ryan’s hips, fingers playing at the scarred skin just below his shirt, pushing him into the wall. He was only going to be able to pull this stunt once, so he hoped Ryan would make it count.

He fluttered his eyes open just long enough to meet Ryan’s blissed-out, desperate gaze, to take in the sweat and grease paint dripping down his face. And then he drew a deep inhale through his nose, tucked his thumb in against his palm and squeezed _hard _as he dipped his head forward.

He took him in right to the base, right until Ryan’s pubes were touching his nose - felt the blunt head of his cock nudging up against the back of his throat. While it did make him choke a tiny bit, he didn’t _really_ gag, and he made a mental note to thank Lindsay for the blowjob tip. Who knew that shite actually worked!

The thought was wiped from his mind as Ryan spilled against the back of his throat – thick, warm cum filling his mouth, washing salty and hot across the back of his tongue. Okay, that did make him gag a little, and he pulled back, leaving himself with cum dripping down his chin and into his beard, his eyes watering.

When he blinked his eyes back open, Ryan was staring at him like he was something otherworldly. He couldn’t comprehend how good that orgasm had felt – his brain had fucking flatlined. The pressure of Gavin’s throat constricting against his glans, the soft sound of him gagging, the way he’d furrowed his brows – he felt like the entire experience had been burned into his brain, was echoing through his bones as the aftershocks wrapped around him. He didn’t know if he’d ever cum that hard in his life or if the last few years of celibacy had just sort of made him forget how _fantastic_ blowjobs felt.

Gavin looked spectacular. He was flushed pink in the dim light, his lips swollen, cum and spit glistening against his bottom lip, clinging to the sandy hairs of his beard. Ryan didn’t think he’d ever seen something so amazing in his life.

He dropped to his knees, his arms shaking, and drew the other man into a wet, hungry kiss, the taste of himself on his lips making another twist of impotent arousal surge up in his stomach. This whole event had been so fucking intense, he wasn’t sure if it was a dream.

“D-Do I owe you, now?” He managed, holding Gavin’s stunned, wide-eyed face in his hands.

The other man chuckled, reached up to wipe at his mouth. “Nah, I’m alright, luv. This one was for you, yeh?” He grinned at him widely, his eyes still twin dark circles as he bumped their noses together. “Does that make for a good apology?”

“Perfect apology. Consider me, uh, fully apologized. I don’t even remember what you did.” Ryan straight-faced for a full thirty seconds before letting out a shaky little chuckle.

Gavin laughed right back at him, tugging at his arm until Ryan pulled them both up to their feet. “Alright, then. Take me home so I can brush my bloody teeth. And shower.”

“Deal.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place chronologically at some point after Rumors but I made that a seperate work because it got so long lol 
> 
> There shouldn't be anything particularly confusing without reading it, assuming you know that Michael and Ryan did some sexy stuff.

The months seemed to fly by.

He was feeling better – much, much better. His relationship with his fellow Fakes had improved, he was finding it easier to communicate… Overall, things were looking up.

Hell, it was kind of like everything was clicking right into place, wasn’t it? He didn’t bother to consider the implications – did his best to ignore the murmur in the back of his head that said, “Really? All you needed was to get your dick wet to stop being an asshole? Pathetic.”

A lot of times, that murmur sounded like Michael.

Michael was another beast entirely, though. His… Heated experience with him at the party before was still warm and very much at the forefront of Ryan’s mind. It burned there, alongside where he stored the memory of his nasty, cruel laugh, and the way he looked holding a gun to a man’s head – dead-eyed and grinning like a shark.

Michael was scary. He was scarier than maybe anyone else, Ryan considered as he fumbled around in the kitchen. It was early – the Penthouse was mostly quiet, everyone either hungover or refusing to wake up this early.

He shuffled around in his socks, trying his best to get a frying pan out of the cabinet without making too much noise. He managed to do it a  _ little  _ quieter than if a marching band had suddenly joined him for breakfast, wincing at himself. He just wanted a fucking fried egg.

No, he very much did NOT want to discuss his feelings. He was done! He’d had sex with  _ two  _ out of the  _ four  _ other people in the Main Crew, and that was good enough. Problem solved. He could go back to swallowing down any latent weird emotions and getting his goddamned work done.

And he  _ loved  _ working. He loved trotting around town like Ramsey’s personal harbinger – appearing like a wraith over the shoulders of other Kingpins and dealers. Anywhere the Vagabond went, the Fakes reputation followed.

The Vagabond was the gun in Geoff’s right hand. The Vagabond was Death Incarnate - the bone-chilling brush of icy wind on your skin, a whisper of something terrible in the future.

He was really starting to get into the theatrics of it all.

Ryan was broken out of his personal self-congratulation corner by the sound of footsteps on the floor behind him. He finished cracking an egg against the countertop, letting it splash into the pan with a nice, satisfying sizzle before he turned to look over his shoulder, getting egg white on his thumb.

Geoff was there, looking every bit as scruffy and exhausted as he probably felt in that moment. His moustache was unkempt, his soft, wispy hair pushed up in messy tufts on his head. Ryan felt his heart do a little hopscotch in his chest.

“Morning, boss.” He chirped in a tone that he hoped was cheery.

Geoff glanced up at him, pale blue eyes assessing Ryan’s choice in pajamas. Nice, comfy boxers, a t-shirt that said “Best Dad” on it. Weird. He grunted softly in response, sliding past the taller man and making a beeline for his fancy French press. “Mornin’.”

“Any plans for today?” Ryan asked eagerly. He wanted to work. Working was  _ fun.  _ Working meant no more thinking, just killing and intimidating and breaking. He liked doing that - it kept his pulse high, kept his breathing even, kept his mind at rest.

Who needs therapy when you have a handgun and a skull mask, right?

“Uhhh…” Geoff was absolutely not awake enough to come up with a good answer to that right now. He scooped a spoonful of coffee grounds out of a vacuum-sealed tin into the press. “I’unno. You can… Uhh… You can go out and scout for people dealing in our territory again, if you want.”

Ryan paused. He stared down at his egg, watched the white wobble as it fried, shiny and wet. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, his vision going soft and fuzzy at the edges. He couldn’t kill interlopers… Or… Well. It wasn’t  _ advised  _ that he kill them. But roughing them up wasn’t against Geoff’s rules. “Sure thing. Anything you need.” He replied, warm and lost in thought.

“Hey.” Geoff’s voice picked up a little, and then he was there, by Ryan’s shoulder, sounding bored. “Your egg’s burning, dummy.”

“What?” Ryan startled. Geoff was right. Thin filaments of smoke were rising from the pan, the stink of burning egg white filling the room. “Shit! Fuck.” He moved to flip it, fumbling the spatula to the ground before he finally managed, jamming his thumb at the vent button over the stove.

“And I thought I was fuckin’ tired, dude. Jeeeesus.” Geoff quipped, a wry, sleepy smile on his face as he went back to his coffee.

“Sorry!” He scrambled around, hurriedly fishing out a plate for himself and dumping his spectacularly poorly cooked breakfast onto it. He made sure to turn off the burner.

“Get some coffee, Haywood. No murders before lunch.” Geoff didn’t look up from his coffee as he slowly depressed the plunger, his tattooed fingers moving smoothly through the motions. He liked making breakfast. He liked the rhythm of it. The calmness.

“Yes sir.” He was sort of hoping Geoff wouldn’t say that, but oh well. Orders were orders.

\---

“Listen, you fat, smarmy  _ bastard _ , I know what I’m talkin’ about! The frame rate doesn’t have  _ shite  _ to do with the-“

“Gavin, shut uuuuuup.” Michael was leaned up against the side of Geoff’s couch, his mouth curled into a wry smile, despite how annoyed he sounded. He’d been watching Gavin and Jack argue about video game graphics for like five minutes now, and he really did not think he could take any more of it.

“But I’m RIGHT and she bleeding KNOWS-“

“Yes, Gavin. Everyone knows you’re right all the time. You’re God’s own gift to us mere mortals.” Jack quipped dryly, her arms crossed over her chest. “How does it feel, coming down from such lofty heights to fraternize with the plebs-“

She was interrupted by a clumsy, poorly aimed punch.

The room dissolved into violence pretty quickly. Ryan was sitting far enough away he didn’t have to move – just shifted slightly to protect his cup of macaroni. He kept his eyes on the scuffle, though. It was always worth it to watch Gavin get his ass kicked.

Gavin trying to hit Jack was a pretty world-class stupid move. It made Michael laugh, though – a searing, nasty sound that set Ryan’s heart on fire. His eyes crinkled at the edges, grinning ear-to-ear as he caught Gavin around the torso, yanked him backwards. He was easy to restrain – squirmy as all hell, but by no means stronger than his best friend.

“LEMME GO, MICOO! MICHAEL- MICHAEL GET OFF MEEEEE-“

“Nah, Gavvy. You made your bed, dude. Jackie’s not gonna let that one slide.” He hooked his arms under Gavin’s armpits, effectively pinned him against his own chest. “C’mon, Jack! I got him for ya! Aim for his stupid fuckin’ nose!”

The thing about Jack was she wasn’t one to back down from a scuffle, especially within the Crew. All of them were like that – punchy and violence and sarcastic – and Jack was no exception. The only difference was that she maintained a vague air of responsibility the rest of the time.

She cursed out loud, shifted in place and rolled her shoulders. Gavin knew he was fucked. “Thank you Michael.”

She pulled back and sucker-punched Gavin in the stomach, left herself and Michael snickering at the pathetic, squawky noises he made in return. Michael held him as he bowed forward, lifted both feet clean off the ground so he could tuck them to his chest. “I BLOODY HATE YOU BOTH! I’M GONNA SLIT YOU OPEN AND—GHh-“

He gagged, a sound that made Jack wrinkle her nose. “Yuck. Don’t puke.”

And just like that, the scuffle was effectively over. Michael was cooing over Gavin, both parts making fun of him and casually comforting him, and Gavin was already getting over his frustration. Sometimes he just needed to be put in his place a little.

The nice thing about the Fakes was that they kept each other in line.

\---

After lunch had ended, Ryan found himself trotting along after Geoff as the man headed down to his office. “So… Um… Anything you need me to do?” He said, not at all desperately.

“Haywood.” Geoff stopped mid-stride, causing Ryan to nearly collide with his back. He turned to face the other man, one thumb hooked in the beltloop of his own slacks. “You sound like a junkie begging for dope.”

A flush rising to his cheeks, Ryan bowed his head. Maybe he was coming on a little strong… “I- I’m sorry.” He replied, taking a soft step backwards, embarrassment swelling in his chest. 

“Listen, Ryan.” Geoff was closer now, one warm hand resting on Ryan’s shoulder. They met eyes briefly, but Ryan averted his gaze once more, let it settle somewhere near his boss’s collarbones. Out of reverence, but also because eye contact made his skin feel wrong. “If you wanna go out and kill shit, go out and kill shit! I could care less. Anything you do is just gonna add to the…” He paused, chewing over his words. “The, uh, yanno. The showmanship. The idea. The threat of the Fakes. It’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” He… Hadn’t thought about that.

He spent a lot of time waiting for Geoff’s command lately - it made him feel important, like he fit snugly into a role. He liked the idea of being a well-oiled killing machine, waiting at a moment’s notice to slink forward and do his Kingpin’s bidding.

The idea of doing crimes for his own pleasure had sort of left the forefront of his mind. His schedule lately was wake up, find Geoff, get job, do job, find Geoff, get new job, repeat until he passed out. But… Well. He hadn’t entertained the idea that sometimes Geoff might not  _ need  _ a dead man. 

Geoff watched him as the gears ticked in his head, It was kind of endearing, honestly - the fact that Ryan was always considering himself smart when he couldn’t even consider the idea of doing something on his own. It was cute, but it was also… Well. Exciting, a little. Having such an efficient madman on his team, practically begging him for orders… Well that was a hell of a power trip.

He patted Ryan’s bicep, gave him a nice squeeze for good measure. “How about this, Vagabond. You go out and check out our warehouses down in La Puerta. See if anyone’s acting up.”

Oh. Oh, okay. Yeah. La Puerta was good - he could ride his bike down there, maybe leave a few sticky bombs in his wake just for fun.

“Actually,” Geoff paused, raised a finger in the air like he was silencing a classroom. “Take Michael with you.”

Ryan paused, swallowed. Inhaled. “Uh, why?” He asked, managing to make his voice come out not  _ particularly  _ strained.

If Geoff noticed something weird about the way Ryan was acting, he didn’t care enough to comment. “Because Gavin’s on house arrest. And if Michael gets bored he’ll probably set my fucking couch on fire again.”

And that was answer enough, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, but the next one's going to be Team Crazy Mad violence, so keep your eyes peeled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos are endlessly appreciated!


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